


The Way Home

by GiggleSnortBangDead



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (Between Gabriel and Aziraphale), 1970s, Alternate Universe - Never Met, Anal Sex, Anathema is an Elite Weightlifter (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Casual Sex, Come Sharing, Crowley Has a (Big) Dick (Good Omens), Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Face Slapping, Homophobia, M/M, Menacing Behavior Towards Animals, One Night Stands, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Coercion, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-10 09:11:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 97,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20525540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GiggleSnortBangDead/pseuds/GiggleSnortBangDead
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley meet in 1979 while working on a film adaptation of an Ezra Fell novel. Aziraphale just had another fight with Gabriel and is looking for something casual, even if it's with a human. Crowley is not a human, but Aziraphale doesn't know that. In Crowley's defense, he also doesn't know that Aziraphale's not a human.Aziraphale and Crowley meet again in 2019 while working on a film adaptation of the same Ezra Fell novel.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> y'all this is so inadvisable. i wanted to not post any of this until it was done, or at least halfway done, but i just want attention so badly. And also, on a more serious note, I do want to know if y'all like this concept, because it's gonna take me Some Time to write so I'd like to know if that's gonna, like, work for people. so give a bitch a holler if you feeling this vibe, i guess??

1979 

(Tuesday)

“Mr. Aziraphale?” There was a man waiting in the airport for him, dressed professional with a smile and a black chauffeur's cap. He was holding a cardstock with his name printed on it.

“Hello.” Aziraphale tried to smile back, but he’d been flying for hours. Airplanes were faster than any other modes of human travel, but they didn’t allow any rest, cramming people up against each other with nowhere for genuine privacy. 

After a grueling red-eye from California, Aziraphale had been hoping to nap. Unfortunately, the child next to him, three or four years old, had cried all the way from Boston Logan International to Heathrow. At first, it had made Aziraphale’s chest pinch with sympathy. Around the second hour, he’d felt less than kind about the whole situation. He’d have miracled something to soothe the babe, except he and Gabriel weren’t speaking and any angelic influence he exerted would be reported back to Head Office, which he knew Gabriel would check. 

(Once, Gabriel had been so mad at him, he’d put in an order Upstairs to cut off Aziraphale entirely. Aziraphale hadn’t realized until after he’d miracled himself to Southwold and checked into a bed and breakfast. He tried to conjure up something nice for his hostess, some sort of minor blessing, and had found himself unable to. Getting home after that had taken a very difficult, incredibly embarrassing two weeks). 

“Do you have another bag?” the chauffeur asked, seeming to sense his mood and matching its somber energy. On top of that, he was a northerner and clearly trying to water down his accent by talking slowly. The pace of his voice did put Aziraphale somewhat at ease. 

Aziraphale said he only had his carry-on. He could hardly even remember packing it. “They weren’t clear on how long I’d be staying.” 

“It’s good to be flexible,” the chauffeur said, taking the small travel bag and leading him toward the parking lot. “If you need anything or want to go shopping, just let me know. I can get whatever for you or take you where you like. My name’s Malcolm. Mr. Fischer has sort of hired me to drive whoever around for the next week or so, but most everyone else has a car.” 

Malcolm led him to the vehicle. Aziraphale didn’t know anything about automobiles, but this one was black and clean and not too big. Malcolm held open the door for him, waiting for him to get settled in the back before stowing the luggage in the boot. The seats were leather, comfortably padded, and tan. 

“Shall I take you to Mr. Fischer, or would you prefer your hotel first?” The car started and pulled out of its space. 

“I didn’t book a hotel,” Aziraphale just realized, kicking himself. He hadn’t been thinking straight when he’d accepted the job. He’d just hopped on the plane. 

“Oh, no, Mr. Fischer booked it for you.” Malcolm drove very slowly through the garage. “He’s eager to meet you, but he said he understands if you want to freshen up first, drop off your things.” 

“It would be nice to wash my face,” Aziraphale admitted. “Change my shirt.” Four hours past Boston, a man had been smoking on his way to the toilet and accidentally flicked ash down Aziraphale’s front. He’d been apologetic, so Aziraphale couldn’t be upset. But he wanted to do what he could to clean it, or maybe send it off to a laundry service for emergency care. 

“Right, the hotel, then.” Malcolm turned on his blinker and headed them toward the city.

* * *

The hotel was a very nice chain one, upper price range, with staff in sharp uniforms ready to open Aziraphale’s door and take his bag. Malcolm, at first uncertain on which of his responsibilities he could allow to be taken from him, tossed his keys to the valet and then aggressively clasped onto Aziraphale’s personal bag. With his free hand, he fished door keys out of his jacket pocket and led him to the elevator. 

“You’re on the same floor as the film’s other guests.” Malcolm explained. “I checked you in at the same time as them. I hope you don’t mind.” 

“That’s just fine.” Aziraphale was starting to feel his physical exhaustion melting into morose sleepiness. He sometimes got like this after a particularly bad spat with Gabriel: drowsy and sluggish. “Thank you,” he tacked on, having nearly forgotten.

“It’s nothing,” Malcolm said, and the elevator dinged open. They rode it up to four. Aziraphale’s room was just off that, and Malcolm drew to a stop in front of 404. He then pointed across the hall at 403 and 405. “That’s where the band is staying.” 

“Ah, yes. The band.” Aziraphale vaguely remembered hearing that there would be some sort of music made for the film, but he couldn’t remember what the band’s name was or what type of music. It wouldn’t have made a difference; Aziraphale couldn’t keep up with all the groups there were these days. 

“Good guys,” Malcolm said while Aziraphale unlocked his door. “Don’t act too famous. Weird, though.” 

“I’ll just be a minute,” Aziraphale said over his shoulder, shutting the door behind him before he finished saying it. 

Finally alone, in the dark, Aziraphale closed his eyes, leaning his back against the door. He breathed, slowly. He focused on breathing, on keeping his heart steady, and then he opened his eyes. He went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face, checked his curls, shouldered his jacket off, and changed his shirt with the extra he’d brought in the bag.

After he flicked the overhead light in the bedroom, he sat on the bed, dialing the front desk. It was a nice enough place, and they had their own laundry service, so if Mr. 404 would just leave the shirt on a hanger for the maid, she’d come in to pick it up in a little after he’d gone out again. In his relief, he nearly laid down. The room smelled faintly of cleaning products and cigarette smoke, but the pillowcase was fresh, lavender-smelling, and cool as he held it to his chest and rubbed his chin against it. 

Just outside the door, Malcolm greeted someone, and the sound brought him back to himself. All the melancholy was really too much and completely unfounded. Aziraphale put his jacket back on. He smiled and checked his teeth in the bathroom mirror. It was fine. 

Malcolm and a tall man in sunglasses were chatting by his door. The man was dressed fashionably, Aziraphale guessed; his black shirt was tight and creeping up his flat stomach, his sulfur-dye jeans were even tighter and thin enough in the crotch that Aziraphale thought he might see his cockhead if he didn’t keep his gaze firmly above the waist. 

“Mr. Aziraphale, this is—”

“Anthony J. Crowley,” the man said, looking at him closely, although Aziraphale couldn’t pinpoint where he was looking or with what exact sort of expression. “I’m with the band.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale put his hand forward to shake. “A pleasure!” 

Mr. Crowley was slow to take his hand, spending another long moment staring at him. He was starting to smile though, nicely enough, so Aziraphale wasn’t too worried. “You're the book guy,” Mr. Crowley said, finally clasping his hand and giving it a gentle shake. “The expert.” 

“Yes, that’s me!” Aziraphale smiled brightly. “And you’re—which part of the band?” 

“Guitar.” 

“Wonderful! That’s just wonderful!” 

“You a fan of our music?” Mr. Crowley asked, his smile suddenly douring, turning serious. 

Aziraphale blanched. He looked at Malcolm. “Ahh...” He wasn’t sure how rude it was to admit he didn’t even remember their name. “Well.”

Crowley burst out laughing. “I’m just fucking with you.” He nudged him lightly, knuckling against his upper arm in a way that shouldn’t have made Aziraphale flush but did. “I’ll see you around, yeah?” he smiled, showing off all his teeth, and they looked a little sharp, blindingly white, and as friendly as a sated alligator’s. “See you, Malcolm,” he added before turning to saunter back to 405, hips swaying. Was that for Aziraphale’s benefit? What was going on? 

“What a character.” Malcolm shook his head. _What a man_, Aziraphale thought. He thought maybe the trip wouldn’t be a complete disaster. Maybe he could do himself some good.

* * *

Looking over the script notes, the cartoon seemed simple enough and close to the book, with a few key exceptions that could easily be addressed. The only real concern was Paul Fischer, the madcap producer-slash-director in charge who shook Aziraphale’s hand enthusiastically enough to make his elbow twinge. 

“Mr. Aziraphale, Mr. Aziraphale!” he shouted. “How perfect it is to finally meet you! I’ve read all your essays on Ezra Fell’s work. Your comprehensive guide to _Way Home_—a revelation! Although I had thought you’d be older. The guide was written so long ago!” 

“Oh, you flatter me,” Aziraphale managed out, pulling his hand back and keeping it clasped tight in front of him. 

Paul Fischer was a short, handsome Austrian man, balding in his 40s, with a long comb-over, a moustache, and a paisley shirt. He’d worked making Austrian and West German cartoons before moving to the UK in an effort to connect with other animators and reach a broader, English-language audience without having to move all the way to the United States. 

“Did my secretary ask you to bring the Fell diary?” Fischer returned to his globe mini bar, making them both a scotch. He was barefoot on the shag carpet, but Aziraphale couldn’t bring himself to get so comfortable. He accepted the scotch though. 

“Ah, yes. I brought copies of a few selections. But of course I couldn’t transport the whole thing. It’s much too fragile.” And embarrassing, but Aziraphale didn’t need to say that. 

To change the subject, Aziraphale asked: “What about the band?” Behind the script notes, there were some character sketches he started to eye. A boy with blonde hair and a bigger boy with brown hair. That looked fine. There was a busty, young fairy woman and a sorcerer made to look grotesque and wrinkled. That had never been Mr. Ezra Fell’s conception of either character, but Aziraphale was always very happy to leave people with their own interpretations, as long as the message stayed at heart. 

“Yes, Temptation!”

“_Temptation_.” It came back to him in a rush. How could he have forgotten a name like that? 

“I wanted something folksy—like _The Point_,” Fischer said. Aziraphale nodded, not knowing what that was. “Or _The Hobbit_.” Aziraphale knew that book, and tried to remember the specifics of the songs. “But the TV execs want to pull in a teen audience along with the young kids. And Temptation seems to be the best among _that_ type of rock.” Fischer looked at him meaningfully. Aziraphale smiled, bland and polite. “I’m excited to get your take on them. So far, the lyrics have been okay. They might be able to set the Christian folktale feeling better than I thought.” 

Aziraphale couldn’t speak to any of that, although he wasn’t sure how a group named Temptation would fare in his children’s story. “Well, that all sounds fine. I was told you wanted me to look over the script?” 

“Oh, right to it, then!” Fischer laughed. “You Americans,” he teased. Aziraphale pinched a smile as best he could. Fischer made a motion for his assistant.

“How long should I expect to stay?” Aziraphale asked, trying not to sound too hopeful about the response.

“Let’s see. You can start looking over the script today. Tomorrow, you can help with any revisions we need and work with the band on the music. Thursday, you can sit in on some voice tests if you want. Unless something comes up, you can probably go Thursday night or Friday morning!” Fischer grinned. The assistant came back, handing the script to Fischer who in turn passed it to Aziraphale. “You can look over this now, but our scriptwriter isn’t here until tonight, and he’ll probably want to get some nightlife, if you know what I mean.” 

“Yes, I believe I do. Can I take this to look over? I need to do some quick shopping, if Malcolm wouldn’t mind taking me to look for souvenirs.” Call it vanity, but he wasn’t prepared to admit his inability to pack for himself. 

Fischer was understanding and dismissed him with the script. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Mr. Aziraphale, bright and early! Don’t forget that diary!”

* * *

Malcolm took him to some high end department store. Aziraphale wasn’t used to the layout or the sterility of not working closely with his own tailor. But the attendants were nice, recommended things in his colors, and Aziraphale paid with the credit card Gabriel gave him, holding his breath to see if it would go through. It did. 

The trousers he bought flared wider in the leg than his normal style, but it wasn’t anything too obscene. He could wear the same jacket and have the laundry service alternate on his shirts, but he bought a jumper, an extra pair of socks, and some slippers for his room. He bought nightclothes and new drawers in case—well, in case he needed them. 

He read and annotated the script in the hotel lobby for the rest of the afternoon with a precise and singular focus. He had dinner in the hotel by himself, and the food was good enough to keep his mind off of things. He planned to take a stroll afterward, but he walked a block over and was distracted by how everything had changed. Mayfair had never been his district, but he’d known it once, just 100 years ago. He knew could have gotten to Soho from there, so easily—but if this was how he felt just in Grosvenor Square… 

It wasn’t anything to get wistful over. Things changed. Not the huge landmarks, but the little things: restaurants, businesses, family histories that he had once been a part of in some small, meaningful way. But he hadn’t wanted to explore a city. He’d want to revisit. Now, he was only a tourist, could only recognize the major monuments or the truly ancient establishments. 

His tiredness must have been making him sentimental, and he resolved to go to bed around 9:00.

* * *

He stood in front of the door to 405, trying to talk his hands out of knocking. It was about 9:07.

He’d tried his best. He had. He’d laid in bed and tried to get comfortable and tried to calm himself but could only think of how the bed was cold and empty, of how _he_ was cold and empty, how Gabriel just 24 hours before had called him selfish and stupid and he had said some truly selfish and stupid things in return. The horrid inactivity of laying there had forced him to dwell pointlessly. 

So, he dressed. He fixed his hair. He pocketed the room key and stepped out. 

He knocked on the door to 405.

“Hello, hello, hello,” answered a shirtless man, feathered blonde hair framing a nice enough face. He hooked a thumb on his waistband and slid his worn out slacks down his hip bones. “You room service?” 

Aziraphale peeked around the much too young man, finding Mr. Crowley. The sudden appearance of his face in the doorway seemed to surprise him, and he jumped off the bed he’d been lounging on. “Hello! Do you remember me?” he asked, smiling as Crowley tripped over himself to push his laughing roommate out of the doorway. 

“Yeah, hey,” Crowley said, a little breathless, trying to block the view of the other man. 

“Oh, are you the neat, little script doctor?” The roommate seemed more friendly and less leering as he looked over Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley shoved him again, which only brought more laughter. Aziraphale smiled too, because at least he wasn’t being turned away.

“What’s up?” Crowley asked, eyebrows pulling. He was still in those sunglasses and the same clothes as earlier, so he wasn’t about to go to bed yet. 

“Don’t be so rude, you cunt! Invite him in,” the roommate shouted. “Hey, Mr. Aziraphale!” he called from inside. “You can sit on my bed!” 

“Shut up, Eve.” Crowley looked away to scowl at his friend. Eve, if that really was his name, was in hysterics. 

“Actually,” Aziraphale piped, calling Crowley’s attention back. “I was hoping to get a drink, but I don’t want the hotel bartender to think I’m a lush. I’m not familiar with this area. I was wondering if you might be able to recommend me a bar.” 

Crowley smiled, looking relieved somehow. He leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms. “I can think of a few places, maybe. Could I tag along? I’m parched myself.” 

“Me too!” Eve yelled. Crowley hissed at him, and Aziraphale laughed at the ridiculous display. 

Mr. Crowley looked back at him, smile falling as he leaned in to murmur, “Do you want him to come?” 

“Oh, Lord Above!” Aziraphale felt lighter than he had in months and endlessly grateful for it. “Just you, Mr. Crowley.” 

“_Mr. Crowley!_” Eve shrieked, so loud there came a thump on one of the walls and an incensed _Cut it out!_ Grumbling, Crowley grabbed a jacket, his key, and his wallet, all while Eve shrilled:“Have fun, _Mr. Crowley_.”

“Don’t be out too late, Snake!” the angry voice from the room over demanded.

Crowley shut the door behind him harder than necessary before Aziraphale could ask him what that all was about. Then again, it might not have been proper to ask—and Aziraphale was suddenly very concerned that this was about to be awkward and unpleasant. Fortunately, Crowley was a good height to slink his arm over Aziraphale’s shoulders and steer him out of the hotel, onto the street.

* * *

“Is this a discotheque?” Aziraphale gawped as the approached the line outside the doorway, knowing perfectly well it was. 

“Yes,” Crowley said anyway, getting waved in and led to the lounge like he was disco royalty. “Is that all right?” 

“Of course.” Aziraphale had to speak over the music, but it didn’t bother him too much. He was just glad that Crowley hadn’t immediately ditched him for the dancefloor. “I didn’t peg you as the type.” They were seated in a long booth, and Aziraphale sat much closer to Crowley than necessary. 

“A few years back when this place was really popular, I might of—had myself a phase.” They didn’t have to be too loud to hear each other now, which was nice and entirely due to the fact that Crowley had slung an arm over the back of the seat and was idly toying with Aziraphale’s shirt collar. “You ever had a phase like that?” Crowley’s breath was a hot, light rasp on his neck, but he didn’t go any further. 

“Oh, one or two,” Aziraphale hummed, trying to remember. He’d once gotten enamoured with human magic shows, took it upon himself to learn a thing or two. He’d barely been able to say a word of it at home before Gabriel sneered, smiling in his tight mask of pity and embarrassment, and told him what an absolutely _idiotic_ idea that was. 

A waiter brought over a sparkling wine and uncorked it. Crowley waved him off and poured generously for the two of them. 

Needing to lighten his own mood, Aziraphale teased, “Well, aren’t you Queen…” He searched his mind for any disco musician, “Diana Ross herself! Did you call in advance, or are they trying to woo you back?” 

Crowley didn’t answer that, choosing instead to drink. Aziraphale could feel his fingers venturing past his collar, brushing the back of his neck, twirling around one of his white curls and tugging it just a little. 

“So, Snake?” Aziraphale prompted, drinking half of his glass in an effort to cool down. 

Groaning overdramatically, Crowley flopped his head back. “It’s a thing with the band. _Temptation_. We all got names that go with it. It’s themed.” 

“Ah, but Eve was hardly a temptress.” Aziraphale had been there, and he felt an awful protectiveness over God’s first, lost children. 

“I know, but he picked it. Then there’s Salome, our frontman.” 

“And _Snake_,” Aziraphale hummed. He’d been posted on the Northern Gate at the Garden and hadn’t gotten a look at that particular serpent. Still, as he watched him from over the rim of his champagne flute, and Mr. Crowley twitched a little in embarrassment, Aziraphale was certain the snake couldn’t have been half as handsome or charming as this wonderfully, bizarrely human man. 

“Salome wasn’t even named as the one who killed John the Baptist in the Bible,” Crowley went on, still a little fidgety. “Just a daughter of the queen. Some historian later said her name was Salome, and we all went with it. At least we know the snake was actually there.” He sniffed a little, and it was clear that his choice of name was important to him. Aziraphale wouldn’t have tried to spoil that, even if he had reason.

So, instead, he smiled, delighted at Crowley’s knowing so much. “My,” he trilled, “Aren’t you well read!” There was heat simmering in his stomach over it. He’d made an effort which started to perk up a bit because Crowley was so clever, almost too perfect. “Do you like history?” 

“Do I like it?” Crowley snorted. “Pigeon, I _live_ history.” 

Aziraphale took a second to process that on top of the pet name. It was an entirely odd way of saying that. But, it was sweet, so he laughed. “You live it,” he repeated. “Yes! I suppose we all do. How very funny.” He was feeling almost dangerously besotted.

“You’re a strange thing, aren’t you?” Crowley watched him. Aziraphale took another drink to keep from plucking those sunglasses off his face.

He said: “I do hope you’re not expecting me to dance. I really don’t know how.” 

“Nah,” Crowley said. “This place is close to the hotel, and they know me. Wouldn’t want you to feel unimpressed.” 

Aziraphale grinned at him after finishing his glass. “My dear, you really should understand that you don’t need to impress me. At all.”

“Oh.” Crowley poured him another glass. “Then why didn’t you just invite me to your room?” he asked, and then rushed to add, “Not that I mind coming out.” 

“I’m afraid I was worried about your roommate listening at the door. I prefer some privacy in these matters.” Aziraphale toyed with the base of the flute. “And I did want a drink.” 

“Eve wouldn’t have,” Crowley said, and then clarified, “I wouldn’t let him.”

“Besides,” Aziraphale continued on slyly, “Now that we’re out, I feel absolutely, positively tickled to have your attention in such a crowded place. That young man over there has been trying to get your attention since we got here, but you’re too busy trying to impress _me_.” Aziraphale had to laugh at the thought. 

To his credit, Crowley didn’t even look for the hungry-eyed youth that was eyeing him from the dancefloor. “Did you think you might need to impress me back?”

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale said, regretting it the second it came out. He admitted, “I figured if you accepted my invitation and didn’t get snatched up along the way, I needn’t worry. Was that wrong of me?” 

Crowley finished his drink and killed the bottle. “No. Although it kind of makes me feel like a slut.” 

“I’m sorry.” Aziraphale turned sincere quickly, anxiety creeping back in. “I meant no disrespect. I just thought we might have fun.” He kept his eyes wide, his tone light, his posture open and inviting. “Keep each other company for the night?” 

“What’s his name?” Crowley asked after a second. 

“The young man?” Aziraphale asked, glancing to where he was giggling with his friends, dolled up and dreamy. “I wouldn’t know.” 

“No, your guy. The one you’re twisted up about.” 

“Ah,” Aziraphale intoned. He finished his second glass, and it seemed like a waiter had been watching them because more sparkling wine was brought to the table almost immediately. The cork was popped, and Aziraphale managed to say his name. He watched Crowley closely.

Crowley filled their glasses again. He thought it through. “And what’s your name? Your first name.” 

No one ever asked Aziraphale that. People just called him Aziraphale or Mr. Aziraphale or Ezra Fell back before he had messed it all up and gotten that name famous. He blinked, panicking, knowing he should be able to answer this quickly. “It’s…” he sputtered, thinking of any name he’d ever heard or any word he’d ever read. “Ernest.” 

“Ernest Aziraphale?” Crowley stared at him, glass paused an inch from his lips. 

“Uh,” Aziraphale choked.

“It’s just—I read some of your work. The initial you use is an I. I just thought—”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale said, barely keeping himself from slamming his head against the table. In all of his critical work, he’d been published as I. Aziraphale, because it sounded like a declaration and he’d thought that was funny. “Yes,” he said again, wishing he wasn’t such an entire clod. “Ernest with an I.” 

“Irnest,” Crowley repeated.

“It’s a family name. I prefer Aziraphale.” Aziraphale nearly sighed in relief when Crowley tight-lipped a smile at him in sympathy. “And are you an Anthony or a Tony?” 

“I prefer Crowley too. But whatever.” 

“All right, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, pouring them both one final glass. “Let’s finish up and head back to mine?” 

Crowley smiled and made quick work of his glass without a second thought.

* * *

They barely made it to the door, Crowley stressing that they had to be quiet in the hall if they didn’t want Eve to get nosy again. Aziraphale was already working a hand down his tight jeans. His cock was warm, stiffening, and the touch made Crowley bite back a groan and send him a less than thrilled look. Crowley extracted Aziraphale’s hand from its teasing work, manhandling his wrists against his chest and pinning them there as he searched his pockets for the room key. 

“I can just get it,” Aziraphale whispered, trying to keep from laughing as Crowley tore from his front right pocket to his front left. 

“You can’t be trusted apparently,” Crowley hissed through his teeth. He reached around to grope Aziraphale’s arse, getting a handful only to discover that, while he did have a generous backside, he didn’t have back pockets. He sighed in his frustration, but it was mostly for show. His hand lingered there, cupping him, groping in. 

“Do you want me to tell you where they are?” Aziraphale asked, one of his index fingers tapping where it was trapped against his breast pocket. Crowley wrenched his wrists to the side—and _oh_ but weren’t his fingers _long_—and he grabbed the keyring. Crowley had the audacity to look victorious, which Aziraphale thought was endlessly endearing. 

Crowley let his wrists go to start unlocking the door, and Aziraphale quickly attached himself to Crowley’s back, pulling the collar of his shirt down to kiss the base of his neck and his shoulder while his other hand curled around his front, tickling over his navel, trailing up the front of his shirt. 

“Oh, Fallen Sun,” Crowley swore, which Aziraphale registered as a very eccentric way to curse, but Crowley _was_ in a band. “You are a menace.” He got the door open and the two of them inside, shutting the door and then spinning around to press Aziraphale against it. He kissed him, firm, insistent, tongue filling his mouth, gagging it, so Aziraphale squirmed and moaned. 

Aziraphale had to remind himself to breathe, because he didn’t need Crowley to suspect that it was optional for him, and also because he liked the way Crowley smelled: ashy, woodsy, sweet like the wine they’d shared, and like sweat. Mouth wet and red, although Aziraphale only caught a glimpse of that, Crowley began to nip and lap at his chin, his throat, his neck. It felt so good, and then Crowley was _biting_ him, sharp and hard, sucking a bruise under his collar. 

All of a sudden, Aziraphale realized that his shirt was open. He hadn’t noticed Crowley working on the buttons, too consumed by the line of his cock, sliding against his hip, so close and so hard that Aziraphale could have sworn he felt Crowley’s pulse through it. He desperately wanted it, but Crowley was holding him in place, and he was strong—at least as strong as Gabriel, which was _impossible_. 

Crowley worked the jacket and shirt off his shoulders, hooking them over the bathroom door handle to keep them tidy and out of the way. That gave Aziraphale enough space to reach forward, take hold of his cock through his jeans, test its girth. He groaned at it. He’d already sized it up, of course, but he was still so delighted. It was a heavy handful. It would make his jaw ache. It would burn so terribly and hit in so deep and stretch him past his limit, if he could convince Crowley to put it inside of him. 

While Crowley was distracted by his hand, he sunk to his knees, eyeing up at him, licking his lips while Crowley gawked at him, face looking even redder when contrasted with the sunglasses. Aziraphale kept rubbing him through it, and he started to ask, “May I? With my mouth? Please, I’m good at it. I’m so good at it.” 

He watched Crowley swallow in jerky, forced motions. He knew what he had to look like to someone like Crowley: desperate, pudgy, red-faced, older, and no longer quite beautiful. Still Crowley said: “Sure, knock yourself out.” 

Pulling Crowley’s jeans down his hips, Aziraphale freed his huge, perfect cock and kissed the head. It was pink, circumcised, with short, neat pubic hair. His cock tasted like sweat and precome, but like it had just been washed. In fact, as he took Crowley’s dick into his mouth and then his throat, pushing his nose against his groin and inhaling, Crowley didn’t smell very strongly at all. He smelled like the hotel’s soap, and not like the musk he’d been expecting, and Aziraphale tried not to be too disappointed because it was by no means a bad smell. 

Swallowing around his cock, hearing Crowley sputter and groan, Aziraphale started to fuck his own throat on Crowley’s dick. He figured it was the impersonality of the scent which bothered him—especially when the hair at the nape of his neck had smelled so very unique. 

“Holy fuck,” Crowley was gasping. “Aziraphale, pigeon, I’m gonna come.” 

Aziraphale sat back on his heels, a string of saliva following his lips as he pulled away. “Already?” he frowned before meaning to.

Crowley hauled him to his feet and fumbled with his belt, shoving Aziraphale’s trousers and drawers down and then flipping him so he was facing the door. Crowley got a wet hand around his cock—when had he licked it?—and started to pump his erection. He rubbed his own cock against the soft plush of Aziraphale’s ass, hips fluid while Crowley somehow forced his chest against Aziraphale’s back, keeping him pressed still. 

It was all a lot for Aziraphale, and he reached back to cover the hand that was gripping his hip. Crowley quickly interlaced their fingers, those joined hands coming to brace against the door as Crowley rut against him and tormented his poor cock. Aziraphale wasn’t wailing—nothing quite so loud. But the sound was continuous and high. Crowley’s breath was hot against his ear, all he could hear, along with the soft thump of their bodies against the wood door. 

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale belatedly agreed. “I’m—so close—I—”

“_Already?_” Crowley hissed in his ear.

Aziraphale laughed abruptly and shot all over his fingers. Crowley hmpfed in his ear and finished rubbing off on him with a load of come splattered against his backside and a light smack on the arsecheek. 

After a second, he peeked over his shoulder. Crowley had the glasses on still, but Aziraphale could at least tell that he’d enjoyed himself to the point of breathlessness—quietness. Aziraphale rest his temple against the door, watching the softness of Crowley’s mouth. He was clearly more interested in the way he could stroke down Aziraphale’s hip and thigh, the warmth of his skin, and the stickiness the semen Crowley had wiped from his hand onto the mess on his back. 

It felt even more intimate, a tugging of warmth and a pang of something sharp in his ribs making Aziraphale shuffle his feet. Crowley stopped, like he hadn’t been aware of the reverent pressings of his hands. He left, wet a towel in the bathroom, and cleaned them off with warm water. 

“Is that it then?” Aziraphale asked, unable to help himself. 

“Don’t you need to sleep?” Crowley looked around for a clock. He stepped in the room more, approaching the bed, checking the clock on the nightstand. 

“I don’t sleep much.” But thinking about it, “Of course, you’re tired.” He wasn’t even upset. They’d been drinking. They’d had sex. It was perfectly natural that Crowley wanted to rest, and it made Aziraphale’s ache with something. Love, or maybe jealousy. Something inappropriate, either way. “Would you… like to stay here? Or, certainly, you’d be more comfortable in your room.”

Crowley was already walking toward the bed, pulling his shirt and jeans the rest of the way off. He slid under the covers, throwing his extra pillow on top of the others on what was likely Aziraphale’s side. Aziraphale undressed as well, although he put on the nice drawers he’d just purchased because staying too long in the nude made him feel vulnerable. 

Without another word, Aziraphale turned the lights off. It was then that Crowley took the sunglasses off and placed them on the bedside table. He settled onto his stomach, one arm curling under the pillow, and his breath evened out before Aziraphale was even settled next to him, cushioning himself with his three pillows. 

Something about the weight next to him, or maybe the sound of Crowley’s breathing, helped Aziraphale relax enough to slip into a light sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case y'all were wondering, yes, Aziraphale knows who Diana Ross is because he and Gabriel went to go see The Wiz, you are correct


	2. Chapter 2

(Wednesday) 

When Crowley woke up that morning, he almost thought he’d been sucked back up into Heaven—but in a good, not terrifying way.

The man next to him was all golden and glowing. He had a hand pressed under his round cheek, having created some kind of soft nest: the three, overstuffed pillows cradling him in clean linen white. There was a deep purple bruise on his shoulder which Crowley felt no small amount of pride looking at. 

He’d put that there. He’d taken that spotless, snowy skin and brought blood forward. Crowley wanted to do that to him all over. He wanted to swallow him whole. He wanted, mindlessly. 

“Are you going to stare at me all day, or can I wake up now?” Aziraphale murmured. So, not asleep but calm, his breath and heart mellow, his entire body free of the tension from yesterday. 

And so bloody thoughtful; Crowley only realized he’d been warning him to get his sunglasses after he’d slid them off the nightstand and onto his face. Aziraphale blinked his eyes open, and he smiled, seeming so happy to look at him. 

“Good morning, dear,” he said, all proper-like but warm. 

“Morning.” Crowley kissed Aziraphale’s mouth, miracling away his morning breath. 

“I’m afraid I haven’t done this in a while.” Aziraphale’s nerves seemed to be returning, making the lines and bags around his eyes more pronounced. “Is it customary to do breakfast, or do we have to part ways?” 

Truthfully, Crowley didn’t do this. Sex was hard for him, because there were so many moving parts, so many customs to keep in mind, so much area for error. He’d done it a lot a few centuries ago, but now most nights he preferred to see what was on TV and play with himself than go to all the trouble. He had a tendency to get attached and depress himself as age took lovers away from him. 

So, he said, “We can do what we want. I’d go for a coffee.” 

Aziraphale called down for a breakfast spread for two, which Crowley didn’t have the heart or the time to tell him he wouldn’t eat because Aziraphale was kissing him before he even put the handset down. He kissed him on the lips, on the neck, on the chest. 

He seemed so entirely pleased sucking at Crowley’s nipples, and tiny sounds played in the back of his throat as he trailed down his chest to his navel. Disappearing under the covers, he breathed at the junction of Crowley’s groin and thigh, and Crowley realized with panic that he hadn’t miracled himself fresh after last night. His sweat would _smell_, he was sure of it, of sulfur, and then where would they be? It would disgust Aziraphale, who smelled of cut glass and cool silk, talcum powder and cleaning oils, and like very old and well-loved books—Aziraphale, who was so incredibly fussy and particular in each movement, in every choice Crowley had seen him make—Aziraphale, who thoughtlessly kept saying mean, honest things—

Aziraphale, who sighed against him, his fingers digging into Crowley’s bony hips as he groaned and nuzzled in, mouthing against his cock. Crowley suddenly felt ravenously hungry: for his lips, and for any and all information he could get about Irnest Aziraphale. He was so terribly beautiful, so gladly willing, so warm and soft and inviting—what sort of man would reject that? How in the universe was Crowley the one being serviced in the bed of this almost unbearably pretty man? 

“You don’t mind?” Aziraphale asked, pushing up under the white duvet. Crowley helped lift the heavy cover to look at him, stationed between his thighs. Aziraphale smiled at him when he appeared. 

Crowley thought his tongue might be lolling, because he couldn't quite muster up a response. “Mind?” he repeated. 

“If I take you in my mouth?” Aziraphale explained, easy as sunshine. “I can probably finish you before room service comes, but I’ll have to start now.” 

“Guh.” Crowley flopped back, his ears red and ringing with the light tinkle of Aziraphale’s laughter. He could remember not too long ago, when Aziraphale had sucked him into his mouth and swallowed him down his throat. It had felt like how Crowley imagined it might be if you got your cock stuck in a wet, fleshy vacuum cleaner. It was sexier than it sounded, although every bit as surreal because Aziraphale looked very much the timid scholar, or the doting friend. Not anything like a person who could suck cock like it was his chosen career. Crowley looked like that, sometimes. He couldn’t help it, as a demon who embraced certain vanities. 

But Aziraphale looked positively—positively holy. Yes, _that_ was the word. He looked like something deserving of more reverence than a quick blowie before the breakfast cart came by. 

That thought didn’t stop Crowley from reaching under the blanket to get a hold of Aziraphale’s white, fluffed curls, letting the duvet cover him again, prompting Aziraphale to open his mouth and lap at his balls. 

Crowley knew he wasn’t being fair. He’d still wanted to impress Aziraphale last night, so he kept his cock at its usual ridiculous heft. But he couldn’t imagine fitting all of that into his mouth. While Crowley hadn’t gotten a good look at Aziraphale’s prick, he knew it was nicely-sized, downright little when compared to his own, and unimpressive when put next to the average dick. If he was being fair, he’d flip Aziraphale over and give his cock a thorough tonguing. He _wanted_ to do that. 

But Aziraphale got his lips around the tip, and all plans of reciprocity halted because all _thought_ halted outside of the basics: heat, adoration, awe. And then Aziraphale started humming, a direct and ruthless assault against all of Crowley’s ravaged faculties. It was a happy, semi-toneless sound. _A morning birdsong_ what was left of Crowley’s brain supplied. 

Aziraphale pulled off a moment to catch his breath, pumping Crowley’s cock tightly. “Next time, I’ll put my fingers inside of you,” he said, and Crowley was so grateful they couldn’t see each other’s faces. “Would that be all right?” 

“Uhhh.” Crowley wasn’t sure _all right_ were the correct words for it. “Uh-huh.” His voice was strangled and high. Aziraphale filled his mouth again, moaning or laughing or just trilling, sending vibrations all up his spine. 

He was coming before he could form the words in warning. Aziraphale, damn him, took it in stride, swallowing it and pulling back. He pressed a kiss to his thigh, like a _thank you_. Like Crowley had done him a solid. 

Just as Crowley was remembering how to move his body, there was a knock on the door. Aziraphale resurfaced, got up from the bed, covered himself with the complimentary robe from the ensuite, and answered the door. Crowley listened from the bed, and Aziraphale’s voice was a little rough—not enough for anyone to guess, but just enough for Crowley to heat, for his cock to twitch.

* * *

They sat across from each other at the tiny table tucked into the corner of the hotel room. Poached eggs, white and black pudding, grilled tomatoes, baked beans, sausage, and toast neatly piled on two white plates. Aziraphale had kept the white robe on. Crowley, a little disappointed, grabbed his tastefully ratty, black jeans from the floor, shook them out, and put them back on. He kept his shirt off, just so it didn’t seem like he was in a rush to leave.

Watching Aziraphale eat was—well, it was unlike anything he’d seen before. Aziraphale seemed to like it even more than sucking cock, which Crowley almost couldn’t believe. It seemed impossible. But from the moment they had sat down, Aziraphale seemed so relaxed. He took a moment to look over at the plate, silently thankful for each part. It really wasn’t anything too special as far as Crowley knew. But Aziraphale took a bite and evaluated it, and he smiled, face turned down, not expecting Crowley to be watching. 

Crowley was hooked, like a worm, squirming in his seat. It was so clearly a private expression, and he wanted to gorge himself on it. 

Aziraphale glanced up, and he couldn’t know for sure that Crowley was staring at him because of the sunglasses, but he still sent him an apologetic frown. “I should have asked before I ordered. You don’t like it.” He put his fork down. 

“Ah, no. I just—don’t usually eat breakfast.” He wrapped his hands around the hot coffee mug. The heat was a small comfort. “The coffee is appreciated though.” 

“Have mine!” Aziraphale nudged the carafe in Crowley’s direction. 

“Not a fan?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale had poured himself a tea with milk almost as soon as he’d sat down. 

“Oh, I love it!” Aziraphale tucked back in, eggs and black pudding and potatoes snagged together on his fork and eaten in one bite. “I drink too much and get intolerable,” he said, after he finished chewing. “I’d hate to get back in the habit before going home.” 

Crowley thought while sipping. A part of him wanted to skip over that, push an early morning temptation, _one cup couldn’t hurt, and if you **like** it_. Instead he asked: “So you’re going back to him? Gabriel?” 

“I always do.” Aziraphale looked torn between amusement and despair. He stuffed his mouth and sighed, eyes drifting shut. 

It would have been easy enough to leave that at that. It wasn’t Crowley’s problem. Crowley was quiet for about one second and then decided to hell with the whole thing. “Why?” he asked. Crowley wanted to hear something like _because, deep down, I love him, and he loves me, and we just have to work through some things. All of life’s a learning process, my dear—Gabriel and I, included._

Aziraphale drank his tea, watching Crowley, weighing his options. “Being with Gabriel is better than being by myself,” he said finally. He added a droll: “I can be terrible company.” 

“How long have you been together?” 

“Oh, years!” Aziraphale went back to eating again. “Ages. He’s the only person who knows me, that really understands what type of… person I am. We have—we have a shared history.” 

Crowley winced. A shared history could mean a few things: some kind of catastrophe, a small town upbringing, or, and Crowley’s main guess, “Military?” 

It caught Aziraphale enough off guard to startle a laugh out of him. “Military!” he repeated. “Yes, I suppose. Something like that.” 

“So…” Crowley shifted in his seat. He wasn’t squeamish, but he didn’t necessarily relish the idea of this very soft, unendingly gentle man at war. (Crowley didn’t like war much in general.) “Vietnam?” he lowered his voice without meaning to. 

Aziraphale hesitated. “A beautiful country. The US had no business being there.” 

“And were you,” Crowley almost asked _in the shit_. He really watched too many movies. “Did you see active duty there?” 

“No,” Aziraphale said lightly. “I was stationed in… primarily Saigon, for diplomatic purposes. I can, um, speak Vietnemese.” 

“And Gabriel?” 

Aziraphale buried a snort in his tea. “Gabriel is a general.” 

“And that’s where you met?” 

“Is this really what you want to talk about, Crowley?” Aziraphale didn’t seem offended, just confused. 

“Yeah.” The word came out too sincere, and Crowley felt a little dirty to have said it. To get himself back in order, he said a mean: “I want to know what sort of cunt would be stupid enough to let you run around when you can suck cock like _that_.” 

“Yes, I am rather good at it,” Aziraphale said, although he seemed neither embarrassed nor particularly smug about that just then. Maybe he was wondering that too; he had a sort of quietness about him, a faraway look. His fork was put down again, one wrist braced against the table, the other toying with the fluffy hem of the robe's sleeve. 

He explained it in stilted terms: Gabriel and he had known each other since their births, although Gabriel wasn’t from Britain, and Aziraphale obviously was. Crowley couldn’t quite figure that, and Aziraphale explained that their mothers were similar, which Crowley _really_ couldn’t figure. 

Gabriel was a little older than him, important, and handsome. He had a demanding job and he traveled frequently. When their friend Mary had gotten pregnant, Gabriel had been so excited that he’d come to Aziraphale. Aziraphale hadn’t ever considered it before, them being together. But he’d been alone for a long time, and he had loved Gabriel even then, and it just seemed the thing to do if Gabriel wanted it. The relationship grew more and more serious. Gabriel learned more and more about Aziraphale, and he still decided to stay despite that. That understanding was why Aziraphale had said yes to moving to America with him. 

“How long ago was that?” Crowley asked.

“I think one hundred years,” Aziraphale murmured. It clearly felt that way. After he said it, he glanced at Crowley and gave him an embarrassed smile. “Well, we’ve been there ever since.” 

“You miss it here.” Crowley said. 

“Dear, your coffee is getting cold.” Aziraphale glanced at the clock on the bedside table. “And I should be getting ready. I’ll take a shower, unless you’d rather—” 

“I can head back to my own room.” Crowley had half-expected they might fool around again, but he understood why they couldn’t. 

“Oh, right, yes, of course.” Aziraphale stood. He made to get up and head to the bathroom, but he paused before he passed Crowley. He cupped his cheek, his hand warm and soft, the edge of the robe tickling Crowley’s chin. He leaned down and kissed him lightly. He smiled, bright and happy again. “I’ll see you later.”

* * *

Eve very nearly gave himself an aneurysm when Crowley waltzed back in. He’d just showered and immediately turned off the hairdryer to gape at him. “All night? Who do you think you are? I feel like your bloody mother! I thought maybe the little bookkeeper had kidnapped and chopped you up into bits or something!”

“Good morning, Eve,” Crowley said, taking off his shirt again and folding it before searching through his bag for a change of clothes. 

“I’ve never seen you go out with anyone, let alone stay the whole night!” Eve was astounded. He was scandalized, and he shouldn’t have been out of a sense of fairness or decency. Eve always had someone over unless the band was working early in the morning. It never mattered if Crowley and he were rooming together or not. “I didn’t think you had it in you!”

“It’s not like I was far away. If you missed me, you could have popped over.” He picked out something dark and fitted to wear, which was easy because that was all he owned. 

This was the wrong thing to say, because Eve scrambled into the bathroom after him. “Was it like that then? Could you have used another hand with him?” 

Crowley took his jeans off and turned on the water. He didn’t want to have to shower with his glasses on, so he stood there, naked, leveling a stare at Eve. Eve didn’t seem deterred, so Crowley said: “We got along fine.” 

“Come one, just tell me what he was like,” Eve whined. Crowley made sure that the hair dryer would spark when he started it up again. 

“I’ll physically remove you.”

“God, you’re fucking surly when you get laid. It’s supposed to make you nicer.” But Eve was laughing, and he left. Crowley took off his sunglasses and folded them on the counter. 

He showered. Under the spray, he idly touched his cock. For once, the big, heavy thing hadn't just been for show but for someone else’s pleasure. Someone had thought it was worth being kissed. And not even just someone, but Aziraphale, who he liked. _How beautiful,_ he would have thought, if that wasn’t a very foolish thing to think.

* * *

When Temptation arrived at Fischer’s mansion-cum-workshop, things were already getting heated. The day before had gone smoothly enough, Fischer even coming around to say “Not bad,” looking over the lyrics without the grimace Crowley had come to expect from the tiny man. 

Now Paul was red-faced, close to yelling, gesticulating wildly at a puffed up Aziraphale. Paul had papers clutched in both of his hands, and he kept saying, “These are the published ones! I’ve read the published ones!” 

“Yes, well,” Aziraphale said, barely keeping his voice down. His hands were clasped in front of him, like the tight hold was the only thing keeping him from throttling the director. “You can’t expect me to transport the entire—”

“Where’s the parts you showed Melissa Woodcock?” 

The flash of anger on Aziraphale’s face did something funny to Crowley’s stomach, because he still looked righteous while he did it. Crowley had only an hour ago enjoyed him looking soft and careful, so this haughty, self-certain expression was particularly fun. Aziraphale said an unkind: “Dr. Woodcock is a vulture.”

“Where’s the entries about homosexuality? The drug use?” Paul stopped waving his arms around, instead crumpling all the papers into one hand and pointing at them emphatically. “My assistant asked for those specifically!”

“That’s the guy you went out with?” Salome asked under his breath. 

“People have a right to know everything about Ezra Fell,” Paul snapped, “If it was in his diary.”

“No, people do not have a right! Some things are private, Mr. Fischer. What does it help if Fell is exposed like that? If I had known you were into the kind of—of tabloid _smut_ that Dr. Woodcock was publishing—” 

“Woodcock is a respected scholar and professor! She’d be the preeminent Ezra Fell scholar if _you_ didn’t have a fascist monopoly on all of his personal writings!” And then Paul called him a fascist again for good measure. Crowley would have laughed if this weren’t the start of his workday. 

Aziraphale said a very low: “Well, maybe you should invite Dr. Woodcock to consult, if you’re so set on her. I’ll let you get to it. Malcolm, if you would be so kind as to drop me at the airport.” He turned on his heel and took off, head held high, not even looking at Crowley or the band. 

(The lack of recognition kind of disappointed Crowley, if only because he was looking particularly fetching today in high-rise flared slacks and dark, wide-collared shirt. It was all designed to show off how lean he was, how wiry, and give a nice enough view of his throat. And now Aziraphale might not even see.)

Paul Fischer threw the papers after him and shouted. Malcolm, poor soul, stood looking between his boss and his charge. There was a beat of silence, and then Paul groaned. “I’ll give you a bonus if you can convince him to come back.” 

Malcolm looked uneasy. “How big a bonus?” Paul’s face started to get red again fast, and Malcolm said, “Kidding, sir. I’ll bring him back.” 

As Malcolm rushed out the door, Paul finally turned his attention to the band. He smiled like he was glad to see them, and maybe he was considering he hadn’t fought with them yet that morning. “Boys!” he said. “That was Mr. Aziraphale! He’s helping us with the script.” 

“Oh, is he helping with that too?” Eve asked. “Seems like he’s more interested in handing you your ass.” 

“Eve, shut up.” Salome walked over to talk one-on-one with Paul, who had looked about a second away from tackling Eve and beating the shit out of him. 

Eve flopped down on one of the couches. “Why do we need a consultant anyway?” 

“Because Ezra Fell’s work is complex, and people are picky about complex things. Even children.” Crowley added before Eve could point out that it was only a kid’s cartoon. 

“I read _The Way Home_ as a kid,” Eve said. “My mum read it to me. It didn’t seem like anything too special.” 

Crowley got that. He’d first read _The Way Home_, in the 1900s, years after it had come out. He’d slept through Ezra Fell’s popularity, but it was easy enough to find out that Fell had written a number of short stories, sermons, and a few treatises. _The Way Home_ was his first and only longer piece, and Crowley had found it insufferably didactic. Compared to its children’s lit contemporaries, it was hardly worth all the attention it got. It wasn’t a gripping satire, like _Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland_, nor was it particularly heartwarming, like _Little Women_.

Just to remind himself how dumb the book was, he read it again the following year. Again, he thought it was tedious. Fell’s message of home as love was so childish, the story was overly simplistic and overdone, and the mystical elements were utterly ridiculous, bordering on insane at times. 

The next year, he read it again with a few bottles of wine, and he was reduced to tears. No one knew because there was no one to tell, but he wasn’t able to make himself forget it. 

_The Way Home_ is about a little boy named Sidney York. After being very bad, his mother and father send Sidney into the woods with his stuffed bear, Percy. They tell him if he can find his way home, he’d be forgiven. An evil wizard sees the boy and makes him lost, because that’s just what evil wizards do. A good, old fairy is able to turn his bear into another boy, who helps him find his way. 

They wander in the woods for so long, and they meet all manner of thing. They face the wizard, but they do not defeat him because there could be other little boys who need to get lost in the woods and learn a lesson. After all of it, Sidney York had learned that his home is Percy. Percy was there to guide and love him, and therefore, with Percy, the world could be his home. He could find safety and comfort in all places. 

But Sidney never sees his parents again, and he never knows if he is truly forgiven. 

_What a terrible thing to put in a children's book,_ Crowley had thought that night. What a horrible thing to remind him of.

Crowley was still a little bitter about the whole thing, but he couldn’t dismiss the book after that. And when the likes of Irnest Aziraphale and Melissa Woodcock had started publishing on Fell’s literature, he’d taken a casual interest. 

“Do you think he’s gonna come back?” Eve asked. “Your boyfriend?” 

“Dunno. Probably.” Although, Crowley knew, Aziraphale could have had some sort of revelation in the shower and now ached to get back to America. There wasn’t any reason to feel disappointed over that, but Crowley had been hoping they might spend more time together.

“He’s kind of an arsehole,” Eve said, getting comfortable on the couch, hooking his legs over the back to watch Crowley upside down. 

Crowley grinned. “I guess so.” 

“Christ Almighty, you’re so _weird_.” Eve huffed a laugh. Crowley came to sit beside him, clasping a hand on his ankle as they waited for Salome.

* * *

Salome’s real name was Rutger White II, he was from Amersham, and he’d been at the height of his teenage rebellion when glam took off. By the time he’d come into his inheritance, glam was largely dead. David Bowie, the traitor, was The Thin White Duke, and most kids just thought Alice Cooper was theatrical. Salome, who had been in piano lessons since before he could read or write, had been hoping to get back at his aunt and uncle by starting a band and living in sin like all the other “gender-confused queers.” His only real option, then, was to bring glam back. 

Eve, his best friend from summer camp (né Evan Alexander Howarth), picked up how to play drums. He’d always been particularly adept at banging things, so it seemed a natural fit, and he took to it well enough to start a band.

Snake had shown up for the guitar open auditions in a black fur-lined coat and platform boots that seemed more interested in sparkling than moving a guy from one place to the next. He had been older than Salome or Eve initially wanted in a bandmate, but he could play, he was handsome, and—if the package in front of his leggings was anything to go by—his cock was huge. That might matter if they were really going to make this work.

It was Snake’s idea to call the band Temptation, and it was his idea to use the names. When Eve asked “Why Snake?” he had spread his legs, the bulge down his thigh answering for him.

Salome was a little in love with him from that moment on. Just enough that he felt hurt, the first year into their success, when Snake had pried his hand from his knee and placed it back on the bar counter, giving it a little pat, like he were a naughty child. Just enough that when he saw the only person who had caught Snake’s attention in their almost three years together as a group, he felt angry. 

The scholar was a dumpy, old thing, so completely different than the radiant sexuality and artifice that glam was supposed to represent. The foppishness of the man had a place, sure, but there was a sincerity in his presentation that made Salome very uncomfortable. The scholar was stuck up, didn’t even acknowledge Snake when he stormed out, and wasn’t handsome enough to get away with that. He was _pretty_, Salome could almost admit, but not _special_.

It made Snake’s mooning that much more unbearable when Salome finished updating Paul and came over to start working with the lyrics.

“So, I was thinking, for the wizard’s song, we pick up with ‘ooh ooh, you better look back boy / you've got yourself in trouble, lost your way to the convoy / ooh ooh, now there's nothing to do / but sit a stitch and listen, let the wizard use his magic on you.’” Eve said reading stilted from the sheet he’d scribbled all over, barely able to make out his own handwriting. “How’s that sound?” 

“Hmm.” Snake said, resting his chin on his hand, watching the door. 

Salome snapped his fingers, making Snake perk up. “Pay attention,” he seethed. 

Snake looked a little surprised, and Salome almost thought he’d been properly chided until Snake showed his teeth, baring them in a not so friendly smile. He got up from the couch in a smooth motion and came to loom in front of him. Being towered over like that, Salome could see his own nervous reflection in the sunglasses. “Are you playing his royal majesty today?” 

“No,” Salome put his hands up in a mock surrender. “We just have work to do, and I don’t want to get behind because you're thinking about other things.” 

“Oh, so we’re worried about professional conduct?” Crowley sneered in clarification. 

“Oi,” Eve said from the couch. 

“That’s not fair.” Salome’s chest ached even heavier, and he was just so angry. 

“You don’t need me for this bit,” Snake said to Eve. “I’m rubbish at lyrics. I’ll be back in an hour or two.” 

“Oh, come on!” Eve groaned. “Again?” 

Crowley grabbed his jacket, the patterned velvet one that he didn’t let anybody touch, and he stormed out.

* * *

When Crowley pulled up in front of the hotel, Malcolm was cajoling Aziraphale on the sidewalk, and Aziraphale seemed to be doing his best to not take out his frustration the young man. Crowley rolled down the passenger side window, leaning over to shout: “Hey, Pigeon! Buy you lunch?” 

Malcolm sputtered, pale and close to collapsing. Aziraphale, at first startled, looked relieved to see him. “That would be lovely!” 

“But, Mr. Aziraphale—”

“Malcolm, here’s 20 pounds.” Aziraphale said, pulling a loose note out of his pocket. “How about you meet me back here in an hour, and you can take me back to Mr. Fischer?” 

“Really?” Malcolm breathed finally, some color returning. He took the note with some reluctance. “One hour,” he said, fixing a stern look at Aziraphale and then Crowley. He opened the Bently’s door for Aziraphale, helped him in, and pocketed the cash.

Aziraphale was almost bubbling with excitement the second he got in. He put his seatbelt on, which was cute, and Crowley peeled off. “Are we in a hurry?” he asked, bracing himself against the door. 

“We only got an hour,” Crowley said, although he wasn’t going any faster than usual.

“Yes, but for lunch—” Crowley looked over at him, and his expression must have been clear enough. The tension in Aziraphale’s shoulders released, and he smiled. “Oh.” And then he pulled tight again, shouting, “Crowley, watch the road!” 

Crowley laughed, swerved, and felt ridiculously pleased. 

Unfortunately, the place Crowley chose was busy. They were seated immediately, of course. But the waiter recognized him, saying, “Oh, you’re from that band! I saw you in a magazine!” He was followed by a group of excited teenage girls who asked if he could sign their napkins. He only pressed his mouth against one napkin to punctuate his signature with lipstick because Aziraphale laughed and it made him feel embarrassed, more exposed than he had in a while. 

“You’re not trying to impress me again, I hope,” Aziraphale said as the waiter brought over naan and rice and chicken tikki masala before they even ordered. Crowley really wanted to drag him into the bathroom, but he’d promised lunch and he didn’t think Aziraphale would forgive him if he didn’t follow through. Plus, he did know that humans had to eat. 

“No,” Crowley glowered as Aziraphale fixed up his plate. Crowley summoned a waitress with two glasses of wine, stolen at random from another table. “It just happens sometimes.” 

“Mmm.” Aziraphale closed his eyes, and Crowley forgot the wine, leaning in more than was appropriate. He really couldn’t help it. “Mm.” He opened his eyes, looking a little hazy in the low lit restaurant. “That’s too bad. I’m sorry you’re so well-liked,” he teased. 

Crowley kept from grimacing at the choice of words. “What was that about with Paul?” 

“Oh, you saw that?” Aziraphale dabbed his mouth delicately. “I just failed to do what he wanted. He was understandingly angry, but I refuse to be swayed on the issue of the diary. It wasn’t written for people to see.”

“But did Woodcock make any of it up in her report?” Crowley couldn’t help but ask.

Weirdly, Aziraphale squirmed like he was the one caught. “Ezra Fell is hardly the only author from the time with… proclivities. And practically everyone was using cocaine!” 

“No, I know. I’m not trying to insult him.” 

“Mr. Fischer does cocaine,” Azirapahle continued cattishly. “And you’re a homosexual.” 

“Am I?” Crowley laughed. 

Aziraphale blinked. “Aren’t you?” 

“Finish up and we’ll check,” Crowley said, nodding at his plate. 

It was only in the bathroom, 15 minutes later, when the thought seemed to occur to Aziraphale. Between kisses, he got out, “Don’t you ever eat?”

Crowley sank to his knees without answer, shoved the beige trousers down, and devoured him.

* * *

As promised, Crowley brought Aziraphale back to Malcolm. He returned to work with the band, relaxed and a little apologetic. They didn’t speak of it, outside of one “Can’t believe that bookkeeper almost Yoko Ono’d us” from Eve. 

Aziraphale was relaxed too, and Crowley watched with satisfaction as he walked back in and greeted Paul with a smile. 

“I have one or two notes about the script,” he overheard him lilt, “And then you’ll be rid of me.” 

And like that, they were all made up.

* * *

Until Paul, the scriptwriter, and Aziraphale came to check on the lyrics. Paul was horrified at what he found, reading aloud: “‘Oh, Percy / what’s the controversy? / Wrap me in your arms / fill me up with your mercy.’ We _cannot_ put that in a children’s cartoon!” 

“Why not?” Aziraphale asked, looking over the different sheets of music. “‘And then the boy begged that Percy would hold him in his arms and brush his tears away like his mother once had.’ It’s nothing that’s not in the book.” 

“Mr. Aziraphale, you’re an upstanding man, so I don’t expect you to understand—”

“That it sounds sexual?” Aziraphale supplied. “No, I do. But I thought you were trying to reach a broader audience. Isn’t that why you’re changing the entire message of the story?” 

“Oh, not this again,” groaned the scriptwriter, a mousy man with a perpetually pained face.

“I’m only saying if you end the story with Sidney York embracing his parents, the message changes. It’s hardly Ezra Fell’s story anymore. It’s Paul Fischer’s, for better or worse,” he said cooly. He handed the lyrics back to Eve with a smile. “I think they’re absolutely lovely.” 

“They’re changing the ending?” Salome asked before Crowley could. 

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale said brightly. “I’ve been assured it’s much more appropriate than whatever it was that Fell intended.” 

“Mr. Aziraphale.” The veins in Paul’s neck looked like they might pop. 

“You can of course discuss the merits of this change with Dr. Woodcock if you would prefer.” 

“I just might!” 

“Oh, no, please, sir,” the scriptwriter begged. “Good work, lads,” he said to the band. “Let’s hear it put to music next.” He was trying to usher Paul and Aziraphale out of the band’s workplace. 

“What a bastard,” Salome said once they’d finally left. 

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed, his heart swelling.

* * *

Aziraphale ducked in later that evening, a few hours after Temptation had started fiddling around with instruments. Crowley stopped what he was doing, and Aziraphale said: “I’ll be heading back to the hotel.” 

Crowley put his guitar down and grabbed his coat. “I’ll drive you.” 

“Snake, we should keep working,” Salome said.

“We’re ahead of schedule,” Crowley said, letting Aziraphale take his arm and rest one of his soft, fat hands on the patterned velvet. 

“Yeah, let’s call it early,” Eve said, but Crowley didn’t hear him really, already leading Aziraphale out of the building and to his car. 

“Do you need to eat?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley shook his head. “I, uh, don’t need to either. If you’d like to just, well, come up?” 

Crowley held the door open for him. “I’d already been planning on it.”

Aziraphale ducked his head, got in the car, hiding a smile. 

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Crowley said once he’d started driving. “But you can be a complete prick. I love it,” he added quickly so Aziraphale didn’t have time to misunderstand. “I just wasn’t expecting it.”

“I don’t mean to be horrible,” Aziraphale sniffed, and he did it self-righteously, which Crowley had never seen before. “He’s just really left me no choice by being so awful and unreasonable.” 

Crowley laughed, feeling wild. He hadn’t known someone like this, someone so petty and so sweet, in a long time. Maybe ever. He almost wanted to drive around the block a few extra times to get some of his excess energy out, but Aziraphale was white-knuckling the door handle, and he really did want to get him into bed.

Aziraphale kept his hands to himself in the elevator, and he unlocked the door himself this time. The bed had been made and his shirt and trousers from yesterday were hanging, clean and pressed, protected in a plastic slip. 

Crowley flicked on the light. Just inside the doorway. He cupped Aziraphale’s cheek, thumbed the corner of his lips, watched the way his breath hitched. He leaned down, leaned in, and he gave him a kiss so soft and tender, his whole body shook from the exertion of holding back. 

Aziraphale took his hand once he’d pulled back and pressed a kiss on his palm. His blond eyelashes brushed the tops of his cheeks, and Crowley wanted to give him a kiss on his eyelids, on his nose, his chin—all the way down to his feet and the ground beneath them.

“Shall I order us some drinks?” Aziraphale asked, cradling Crowley’s hand gently. 

Crowley nodded. He was trembling, fully clothed and barely kissed, and there was no way he was going to last worked up like that. He sat on the bed while Aziraphale ordered a bottle of champagne. He took off his shoes and jacket. He watched Aziraphale loosen his bowtie and pop the first button of his shirt collar, his mouth watering. 

Once Aziraphale had put the receiver down, Crowley snatched his hand, drew him in between his spread legs, and tugged at his jacket so he’d take it off. 

“You’re very sweet,” Aziraphale murmured, gazing down at him, a hand on his shoulder. 

“I am not,” Crowley snapped, and he pinched Aziraphale on the arse for good measure. Aziraphale only laughed and pulled away before Crowley could do it again, going to fold his jacket and neatly take off his shoes. “I’m not!” 

“No, dear boy, you’re right. You’re an incorrigible brute.” 

“Exactly!” Crowley sighed, very much comforted to hear that. “Let me help you with your buttons.” 

Aziraphale pulled off his soft, warm jumper and came back to the bed, back between Crowley’s thighs. Crowley clutched at his arm, pulling at him until he got the message and tentatively sat on his lap. “Really, I’m much too heavy for that,” Aziraphale told him, primly holding himself back. Crowley got the first few buttons of his shirt open and reached in to grope his chest and pinch his nipple through his undershirt, enough to make Aziraphale settle atop him more.

He unbuttoned further, put both hands on him, cupping the fat of his chest and pushing it together. Aziraphale clasped his hand on Crowley’s upper arm, his head falling back a little, his chest apparently too sensitive. It was only right that Crowley took the moment to mouth at his neck. 

When the knock on the door came, Aziraphale was properly flushed and unbuttoned, and Crowley was feeling more in control of the situation. He guided Aziraphale onto the bed, laying him on his back and kissing him before getting the room service. 

He tipped the server and miracle the champagne popped, pouring two glasses while Aziraphale robbed him of the pleasure of working his trousers down by removing them himself. They were folded, along with the button-down, and put aside, leaving Aziraphale in his pristine white undergarments and socks. His nipples had peaked, poking against the thin cotton shirt, so pink they might as well have been rouged. 

Aziraphale accepted the flute and they drank in silence, sizing each other up with care. 

“Would you like to be inside of me?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley choked on the drink, which burned. He really shouldn’t have been so surprised at this point. Aziraphale waited for him to clear his throat, sipping patiently. 

“Okay, sure. If that’s what you want.” 

Parting his knees where he was leaning against the pillows, Aziraphale smiled and gulped back the rest of his drink. Crowley finished his too, which felt bad because his throat was still raw, but he put the glass down on the corner table and entered the space made for him. 

He licked into Aziraphale’s mouth as Aziraphale did what he could to start undressing Crowley. It all made Aziraphale laugh in that carefree, breathless way which Crowley thought could grow to be his favorite sound if he just got to hear it again, and then once more.

Crowley pulled him flat on his back, dragging Aziraphale’s legs up as he _laughed_, and peeled the neat, little socks off. He kissed the dainty arch of his foot, his ankle, his calf, raking his too sharp teeth against the doughy underside of his knee and thigh. 

When he finally drew back to yank of his shirt, Aziraphale managed to wiggle out of his own as well. Crowley looked down at him, the white-pink skin and the dark blotch he’d left last night, and felt his gums ache in a way they usually didn’t when he was in a human body. Aziraphale was looking back up at him, blushy and soft-eyed. 

This time when they kissed, Crowley wrapped around him, wanting to choke all of his senses, to absolutely consume him. And then he realized: “Oh, fuck, I don’t have any—”

“Check the bathroom,” Aziraphale breathed. “There might be some lotion or—”

Crowley was already up, ready to search. What he had not expected to find was a half-empty tube of K-Y Jelly, propped up on its cap on the counter. “Um,” he said, staring from the doorway. Had he summoned that from some poor couple’s room without meaning to? “Is this yours?” He showed him the tube.

Aziraphale got even redder in the face. “I didn’t pack that but...yes, it must have fallen into my bag.” 

“Right,” Crowley smiled, popping it open. “How do you prefer it?" Crowley finally took off his slacks, his cock aching heavy and hot in the chill of the room.

Aziraphale turned over onto his stomach and then pressed his hips up to work his drawers off. “If you don’t mind,” he said as he struggled.

“Sure, yeah, that’s fine,” Crowley said, getting up behind him and helping him out. He had to press the heel of his palm against his cock to keep it from _throbbing_ like that at the sight. “Cool,” he said, grabbing a handful of his arse. He pulled Aziraphale spread and looked at his tiny hole. He glanced down at his cock. It really was cruel of him to expect Aziraphale to take the whole thing in there, in that tiniest of places. 

“We don’t have to,” Aziraphale hummed, seeing the hesitation. “We can do it a different way. I could fellate you again.”

“No, thanks.” Crowley refused to be the one to not see this through, especially when Aziraphale seemed completely undaunted by the task at hand. He slicked up his fingers, he rubbed them over Aziraphale’s hole, and he started to work them in.

Aziraphale took them without much resistance, relaxed and looser than Crowley had been expecting. Of course, he realized, as he started almost immediately working in his second and third fingers, Aziraphale had never said that the problems between Gabriel and him were in the bedroom. It was a huge relief, and Crowley felt his cock twinge at the thought that Aziraphale was ready for him and that he wouldn’t shatter and break. 

Crowley twisted his wrist sharply, getting Aziraphale to gasp as his knuckle nudged against his prostate. Just as Crowley determined to abuse that spot, Aziraphale was shifting under him, saying, “Just hurry up, please.” 

It had barely been a minute, and it might have been a while for Crowley, but he knew it was supposed to take more time than this to get ready. Aziraphale was not thinking clearly, so Crowley bumped his fingertips against that spot again to remind him of the importance of prep. He scissored his three fingers, spreading them wide, making sure to attack those nerves inside of him, at the very least to keep him from demanding anything reckless. 

Instead, Aziraphale huffed and whined and shook his head against the pillows. Crowley wanted to work in four fingers, bury his pinkie inside of him and see if he could get him to sing. He wanted to know if that was something he only did with his mouth full. But Aziraphale was starting to grind his cock against the covers, so Crowley pulled his fingers out and hauled his hips back up, not wanting this to end so soon. The bitchy, bereaved noise Aziraphale made was reward enough for the choice. 

“Want me to put it in now?” Crowley panted, reaching around to grip Aziraphale’s dick and squeeze it. 

“Obviously.” Aziraphale rocked his hips back, pressing his backside against Crowley’s cock. 

“_Obviously_,” Crowley teased, but he lined the head of his cock and started to sink in. 

“Ohh,” Aziraphale whimpered, like he still hadn’t been quite expecting it. Crowley paused, letting them both get used to the feel. Aziraphale unclenched his hand from where it had been gripping the pillow. “All right.” He cleared his throat. “Have at it,” he said with strained propriety. 

That really was the last straw, and Crowley slammed his hips forward in a way he really shouldn’t have done with a human, forcing him up the bed, knocking a cry out of him. For as loose and welcoming as he’d been around his fingers, Aziraphale was viced around his cock, hot and tight and unrelenting. Aziraphale reached up, braced one hand on the headboard, and looked back at him with his mouth open, his eyes wide. He nodded once, and Crowley did it again, and Aziraphale made the same, gutted noise. 

Crowley couldn’t stop himself after that; he attached himself to Aziraphale’s back, pulling him up onto his knees more so he could keep thrusting while kissing his shoulder and hearing, _feeling_, the sounds he could pull from the man. He got one hand curled around his throat, not to hurt him but to hold his head back and feel him swallow while he licked the sweet salt from his neck and pounded forward. 

“Look at you,” he harshed against his ear. “Like you were made for this.”

“To love?” Aziraphale squeaked, eyes opening but unfocused. 

“Yeah, Pigeon,” he said, his chest doing that funny flip again. _Yes, baby_, he’d almost said. _Yes, darling, my pet, yes, **dear**_. But he didn’t. “It feels so good,” he said, punctuating the word with a particularly unkind thrust upward, “to love you like this.” 

Aziraphale nearly wailed. “Oh,” he cried. “Oh, Crowley, oh, dear.” He took the hand from where it was gripping the headboard and covered Crowley’s wrist instead, getting support only from the grip around his throat. 

“Do you want to come?” Crowley asked. “Can I make you come with me?” Aziraphale nodded, and Crowley started to stroke his cock. “Go on, Pigeon,” he begged. “Go ahead.”

Crowley thought the world might have whited out when they came. The next thing he knew, he was flat on his back, his hand was sticky with Aziraphale’s spend, and the man himself was panting beside him, staring at the ceiling. 

“Can we do it again?” Aziraphale asked. “We can have more champagne, and then we can—of course, unless you’re tired.”

Venturing a look at him, Crowley felt like he was in some kind of dream. He had really thought that was gonna be enough for him. He was sure anyone else would have been done for after that. Aziraphale, after a moment’s rest, looked lively and excited, and Crowley couldn’t say no to that. He still couldn’t understand why anyone would want to. “Sure,” he croaked.

Aziraphale hopped up to get their drinks.

* * *

Salome stayed late at Fischer’s mansion. Eve wandered off around 10, and Salome couldn’t blame him because he was terrible company. Paul Fischer, shaken by his day, had agreed to go out with Eve. The scriptwriter had run home. Salome was alone, faffing around on the piano, feeling sorry for himself. He couldn’t trust himself to not push his ear up against the expert’s door if he ended up back at the hotel. 

The phone rang. It rang again, and Salome tried to ignore it. Fischer had to have a butler or someone to answer that. And when it was clear that there was no butler or the butler was asleep, Salome figured the caller would give up. But it kept ringing and ringing, and Salome got up, wandered into the foyer, and answered it himself. 

“Fischer’s not in,” he said. “I can take a message, but I’m not sure when he’ll be back.” 

“I’m calling for Aziraphale,” said the American on the line. “I want to know what room he’s staying in.”

“He’s not in either. Try the hotel.” Salome wanted to slam the phone down.

The American sighed, like Salome was the one being difficult. “Which room in the hotel is that?” 

“Why are you calling here? You know what, I don’t actually care.” And Salome told him the room number. Who gave a shit what happened to that cunt anyway? He hoped it was the mafia, like in one of those old movies Snake liked so much, and they’d break down the door and drag Aziraphale off. 

That was a very wicked thing to think, and Salome had to wonder when exactly he had become so cruel. 

The American seemed very grateful. “Thank you, Rutger,” he said, and hung up before Salome could ask what the bleeding hell that was about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um so i don't know dick about writing lyrics, and part of me thinks i somehow stole the lyrics in this from somewhere (it's probably just that they're super generic) but if i did, whoops sorry.
> 
> thank you for reading, and i hope you liked it! (part of me wants to tell you that I feel a little uncertain about the writing in this chapter, and part of me is very disgusted by that because it feels like fishing for compliments, and another part of me thinks its ridiculous that i think i could excuse my bad writing by pointing it out lol we like to have fun)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a little housekeeping at the beginning: I'm going out of town until the end of the month! I wanted to make sure I got this out before I left tho so I could let y'all know. It's a long awaited vacation, and I'll have internet access so I do want to hear what y'all think. But I'm also gonna be busy watching movies (I'm going to a film fest, not to brag lol) so i probably won't be typing stuff up

(Thursday)

The phone rang, waking Aziraphale up with a start. Crowley, naked under the covers, groaned and rolled over. Aziraphale checked the clock, and it was almost a full hour before the alarm he set was supposed to go off.

“Hello?” he answered after the second ring, his voice scratchy and a little more irritable than polite. 

“Aziraphale.” Gabriel sounded neutral, neither relieved nor angry to hear his voice. 

“Gabriel. How unexpected.” He felt Crowley still minutely beside him, his breath getting caught once and then evening out as he feigned sleep. “How are you?” 

“You’re being ridiculous,” Gabriel told him. “Completely immature. Just come home, and we’ll forget the whole thing.” 

“How did you get this number?” Aziraphale started to pick at the duvet, but he kept his tone mild. “Don’t tell me: you’re calling from the lobby and I have five minutes to come down before you get really sore.”

“Don’t be silly.” Gabriel laughed, and it seemed that maybe their disagreement was over. “Have I ever been _really sore_ at you? Huh?” 

“Why are you calling then?” Aziraphale sighed.

“Whatever it is you’re doing, _whoever_ it is, you can stop. Okay? You made your point.” 

Aziraphale for the life of him couldn’t think of any point he’d been trying to make and said as much. 

“Oh, come on!” It was clear now that Gabriel was hanging onto his good nature by a thread, or at least he wanted it to seem so. “You changed your effort, adjusted your capacities a bit here and there—which might be fine. But then you transported _our lube_ from _our home_. How am I supposed to feel about that?” 

“I don’t know,” he admitted.

“I feel like I’m pretty understanding about a lot of your little quirks, but sometimes I just don’t know what I’m supposed to do with you.” Gabriel said it, voice rough, like he was sad or tired. Sometimes, he sounded so pathetic that Aziraphale didn’t know how much of it was a performance and how much he was really hurting. 

“I understand.” There was a twinge of guilt that was completely unjustified. Gabriel was always quick to remind him that God had created Aziraphale timid and slow; none of their fights could ever really be his fault if he was senseless by nature. Gabriel had explained to him once, before Aziraphale given up the shop and moved away, that his simpleness was probably why he liked the books so much. He could fill himself up with other people’s good and meaningful thoughts and build a sort of intelligence, which Aziraphale was proud to have accomplished so well that his thoughts almost seemed to be his own. But Gabriel had to remind him from time to time that his intelligence was fake, that God had intended him to be one of the more challenging creations to reason with.

“Will you come home, then?” Gabriel sounded right and bright again, but that didn’t necessarily mean that he hadn’t been sincerely upset. 

“Yes, I’ll be heading back tonight or tomorrow.”

“Guess where I am?” Gabriel said. Aziraphale had guessed he was at the house they kept in Sonoma; he had seemed so singularly focused on getting him home. 

“Where?” Aziraphale asked, trying to tamp down the sudden jealous, hurting, angry mess that flared in his stomach.

“Poland!” he said. “I’m making sure things go well for the pope’s visit. J. P. II is going to set these Commies right, once and for all.” 

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale swallowed. “That’s wonderful, dear.” 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, sunshine.” Gabriel said. “Wish me luck, not that I need it.” 

“Good luck with the communists, dear,” Aziraphale said, so dry that Gabriel could have almost picked it up if he’d still been listening. He put the phone back in its bed and thoroughly ignored Crowley’s eavesdropping, choosing instead to settle back under the covers behind him. He wrapped Crowley up in his arms and breathed in the musk at the back of his neck. 

“What a prat.” Crowley covered Aziraphale’s hand with his own. Aziraphale snuggled closer, not saying anything. “You,” and Crowley hesitated. “We, you know, people, don’t have a lot of time on the earth. It’s not worth it, wasting your time with someone like that.”

Aziraphale sighed against him and kissed his freckled shoulder. He knew better than to call him sweet, and he couldn’t explain how many, many years he had fill. “Thank you,” he said, and hoped that it was enough.

* * *

They had an easy morning. Aziraphale asked Crowley what he wanted from room service this time, and he ordered a coffee and, with some goading, a soft-boiled egg. (“You know,” Aziraphale had said thoughtlessly when it arrived. “Some people eat the shell.” Crowley had looked discomforted by this information, which reminded Aziraphale that not everyone wanted to know taboo food facts over breakfast.)

Aziraphale would have given him oral sex again, gladly, but Crowley had pushed at his shoulder and told him to “give his jaw a break,” which was one of the most flattering ways Aziraphale had ever been asked for mercy. They exchanged handjobs though, Crowley’s elegant fist around his cock while he filled Aziraphale’s mouth using his other hand, depressing his tongue with two fingers, making him murmur as he tipped over the edge. Aziraphale wanted them in deeper, wanted more of them, but he figured Crowley was already being good enough to let Aziraphale drool all over his hand and that he best not push his luck.

The same could be said about the bathroom, into which Aziraphale tried to goad so they might shower together. Aziraphale had been hoping to wash him, to soap him up, to clean and fondle him. Crowley so politely declined, opting to go back to his room instead. It only made sense: his clothes were all there anyway. 

Because there was no need to keep up a pretense anymore, he cleaned himself with a miracle and used the time before he was supposed to meet Malcolm to compile a list of comments he might leave with Mr. Fischer and Mr. Charles Volk, the scriptwriter. If they were going to change the ending to make it more appealing for the mothers and fathers watching with their children, they could just take his name off the wretched thing. He’d neither be the consultant nor the adapted author if they were going to so egregiously misinterpret Ezra Fell’s work. 

(Of course, he had no authority to enforce anything in Ezra Fell’s name. He’d never quite got intellectual property laws, and there had been a lapse in the copyright some years back. Now, all of Fell’s publicly existing documents were free publicly.) 

Malcolm met him in the lobby and Aziraphale asked about his night and about the girl he’d taken this job for so he could buy her a new dress and fancy night out. Malcolm almost asked about him and Mr. Crowley, but it turned out he didn’t have the stomach for it, and Aziraphale couldn’t bear to hold that against him.

* * *

To say that Paul Fischer was happy to see him that morning would have been an overstatement. He was, at best, relieved that Aziraphale hadn’t fled into the night. He did not relish another day working together. Aziraphale shared the sentiment. 

Mr. Volk, in his small round glasses and tiny silver chain necklace, seemed fine with the company. He couldn’t have been over 30, and he was broad and pleasantly plain, well-dressed in spite of that, and nervous around the director. The day before, he’d leaned over to Aziraphale to say: “I tried to tell him the same thing about the end—he just won’t listen, and the folks from the studio agree with him over me.” He was trying to minimize professional conflict. 

The professional setting was always where Aziraphale felt most comfortable with conflict, although only when dealing with humans. He resolved to send Mr. Volk out of the room with a call from Mrs. Volk when he was ready to go after Fischer. Mr. Volk wasn’t the first to be soothed by Aziraphale’s very existence into talkativeness, which is how Aziraphale had learned that he and Mrs. Volk had been trying for five years now and that Mr. Volk was partly nervous because she had a meeting with their fertility specialist on Thursday. The news of successful conception would come around 3, after Mrs. Volk’s doctor’s appointment, and keep Mr. Volk cheery for the rest of the day. 

Unfortunately, they did not reach the hour of the call before he and Fischer had their first row. Paul Fischer threw the script at his head over some small comment; he hadn’t thought to throw the thing spine-first, so the pages fanned out and the manuscript didn’t fly far. It was all absurd enough that it knocked a laugh out of Aziraphale. Mr. Volk looked almost green with nausea, and Fischer grabbed the pen knife off his desk.

“Oh, gracious,” Aziraphale sighed, unthreatened but bothered by Fischer’s inability to remain civil. He couldn’t tell if it was too much cocaine or not enough, but either way he didn’t want to traumatize the poor Mr. Volk, and on this the most special of days! “I’ll step out,” he said. “Let you cool your head.” He walked out before Fischer could take the offense that had been intended and threw the dull, but still knifely, instrument at him. 

He took some air out front of the house, and it was there that he saw the other band member: the one with the bleached and dyed blue cropped hair and eyes so green Aziraphale almost thought there was something ethereal about him. Salome was smoking, and he looked disappointed to see him. It was difficult to say if Salome simply wished to be alone, or if he specifically didn’t like Aziraphale. 

“Cigarette?” Salome offered before Aziraphale could choose between facing Fischer back inside or standing in cold silence with the young man. 

Aziraphale took one, and Salome fished out his lighter. “You know,” he said after the first pull, “I’m supposed to have quit.”

“Why?” Salome asked, watching him closely with those inhuman eyes.

“Sets a bad example,” Aziraphale hummed. “Plus it stinks, I’ve been told.” 

“You have kids?” 

“Oh, no!” Aziraphale laughed. “And I don’t suppose I look ‘cool’ enough like this to lead any youths astray.” 

“Hm.” Salome finally looked away, mouth twitching. He scratched at his lip, hiding whatever expression he’d been on the verge of making. “Did that American find you?” 

“What’s that, my dear?” Aziraphale was a little lost in his rushing relaxation. How long had it been since he’d had a cigarette? Two decades? Not long enough for it to have felt so missed.

“An American called Fischer’s last night asking after you. I told him you were at the hotel. Did he find you all right?” 

“You told him where to find me,” Aziraphale said, not sure how he felt about that yet. 

“He basically already knew.” Salome didn’t look guilty or concerned, until he said: “He knew my name. My real name. How did he know that?” 

“You’d have to ask him.” Aziraphale snubbed out the bud and then threw it in the outside bin. He figured he should probably head in, because this couldn’t go anywhere good for anyone. 

“Who is he?” Salome asked, mirroring the action. 

“My boss,” Aziraphale settled on.

“Listen, about Snake,” and then he hesitated. He cleared his throat. He really should smoke less if he wanted to keep his voice. “I’ve never seen Anthony go after someone like this before. I just thought he wasn’t interested in things like that, but he seems to be interested with you. So maybe if you could…” Aziraphale wasn’t sure what he expected Salome to say, but it certainly wasn’t: “Leave him alone.” 

“Oh.” Aziraphale raised his eyebrows mildly. 

“On top of that you’re a liar—no one’s boss calls international like that unless they’re really important, and you’re not, sorry—but also we can’t jeopardize the band by having him get all silly about some old guy.” 

“Would Crowley appreciate you taking control of his affairs like this?” Aziraphale wished he had another cigarette, although it didn’t feel proper to ask for one at that moment. 

“We’ve started something really great with Temptation here, and I think Anthony would understand that I’m trying to protect that. It’s not just about him.” 

“It seems very much about him, if I can say so.” Aziraphale clasped his hands in front of himself for lack of a better thing to do. “You love him. It’s all right,” Aziraphale said before Salome could protest. “He’s—loveable. But I’m only here for another day. You have nothing to worry about from me. And you should have the decency to leave Crowley to manage his own personal life, don’t you think?”

Salome finally looked upset. His voice rose suddenly, like a child’s. “You’re just going to leave him?”

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale wanted to pull his own hair out. This day was getting too dramatic. Maybe the nicotine was affecting him badly after so long. “I’m really not sure at all what you want from me.” 

“I don’t understand why he likes you!” Salome said that like it was very unfair. 

“Why he likes me and not you,” Aziraphale clarified. “I don’t understand either. After all, you’re both very beautiful. You clearly have a bit in common. Maybe it’s because he’s just looking for something brief, like I am, and you’re his good friend.” 

All of a sudden, Salome’s chin was wobbling. The green of his eyes grew more startling as he got red and teary.

“No, please don’t.” 

“You don’t even know what it means that he likes you!” Salome said with his throat clogged by emotion. “You complete, idiotic—toad!” 

Aziraphale kept his mouth tightly shut at that, because he couldn’t think of a single helpful thing to say at that moment. “You’ll ruin your makeup if you keep at this,” he said after a moment. 

“I don’t care!” Salome cried, loud enough that if anyone wasn’t already busy, they might come investigate just what Aziraphale was doing to the poor boy. 

Unable to take it anymore, Aziraphale reached out and took his hand. He focused on how little of a threat he was to Salome’s happiness, and how much he really did not want to see anyone cry today. It wasn’t much, but there was some kind of connection made, the touch sparked some sort of comfort, and Salome sniffed, quieting. 

“Will you stay away from him? You don’t even like him, so can’t you just leave him alone?” 

“I do like him,” Aziraphale said, taken aback. “I like him immensely.” 

Salome made a ragged sound. “But you have your American! Don’t you see how unfair you’re being? How ugly and wicked?”

Aziraphale pressed Salome’s fragile hand between his palms. “I hope you work up the courage to tell Mr. Crowley what it is you feel. The sooner the better, I’m certain. If he doesn’t want to be with me tonight, I wouldn’t hold it against either of you. Do you understand me?” 

Wiping his face with his free hand, Salome brushed snot and tears off with his knuckles, and he nodded. Aziraphale let his hand go. 

“Good.”

* * *

“Mr. Fischer,” Aziraphale began. He was feeling much deflated. Mr. Volk had not only left to get the telephone; he had walked out on the entire afternoon, preferring to celebrate with his wife than to continue being batted back and forth between two unreasonable personalities. “Mr. Fischer,” Aziraphale tried once more to get his attention. Fischer was lying on the couch, the script open over his head. He had been, to some extent, defeated. “I just don’t understand why the fairy has to have a sister, let alone why we need to focus on their intimacies to this extent. Ezra Fell never—”

“Oh, Ezra Fell, Ezra Fell!” Fischer shouted. “What does Ezra Fell know about entertainment? He spent thirty fucking pages just listing types of birds and their importance to God. How can I be expected to take his material seriously? What am I supposed to do with that?” 

Aziraphale puffed up defensively. The epic list of birds within the forest and their devotion unto the Lord was one of the sections of the novel he didn’t remember writing very well, but he certainly knew, when imbued with a specific kind of energy, he was capable of such things. Even he had a hard time interpreting that section. “I don’t know what you’re supposed to do with that! You don’t have to do anything with it! I’m talking about ‘The Fairy Girl’s blonde sister, Allisoun, in a gossamer gown, bounding to her beloved sister and holding her tight, chest to chest.’ You only need explain what merit this addition has, and I’ll be happy to accept!” 

There was a groan from under the script. 

Hesitating, Aziraphale worked up the nerve to say: “I do think Melissa Woodcock might also take objection to this scene.” 

“I don’t even _like_ reading,” Fischer moaned right as there was a knock at the door. 

Fischer’s assistant, whose name Aziraphale still hadn’t been able to get, peeked in. “Carol and Mr. Green are here.” Fischer sat up, put the script on the coffee table, and made a gesture for them to be shown in.

“Mr. Aziraphale, this is Peter Gupta—”

“Peter Green,” the young man said, shaking Aziraphale’s hand. He was dressed very casually, in a color-blocked windbreaker and athletic shoes. “That’s what it’ll be in the credits anyway.” 

“And this is Carol—Carol, what’s your last name?” Fischer asked.

“We’ve worked together five years, Paul,” she said. She was a tall, elegant woman, made even more tall and more elegant by the knee-high leather boots she wore. 

“Yes, but since your, ah…”

“My divorce?” she asked. Fischer shifted. She turned her gaze to Aziraphale. “May. My name is Carol May.” 

“Ms. May.” Aziraphale smiled and shook her head. “Terribly easy to remember. I’m the consultant, Aziraphale.” 

While Fischer was busy glaring at Aziraphale, Ms. May started to explain: “Peter and I are the voice talent. We’ll be doing Sidney York and Percy.”

“Oh, but you’re—”

“A woman?” Ms. May cut in.

“Grown,” Aziraphale said. “Won’t that sound strange?” 

“I don’t know.” Ms. May voice became suddenly higher, a little wobbly, and childishly posh. “Will it?” 

“We’re also doing the wizard and the fairy.” Mr. Green added brightly. 

“That’s how things are usually done, Mr. Aziraphale,” Fischer sneered. “I wouldn’t expect you to know.” 

“I’m certain the both of you are entirely capable,” Aziraphale said, happy to ignore Fischer.

“I’m thrilled you two came down, but I’m not sure we have anything for you to read over,” Fischer said. “The script is apparently unworkable.” 

“Nonsense!” Aziraphale took the script from the coffee table and handed it to Ms. May so she could look through it. “There are a number of just fine sections between Percy and Sidney. Not to mention, the band has written a number of splendid songs.” He grabbed the loose sheets of lyrics and shuffled through them for the lullaby, finding it and stepping to give it to the actors. “Oh, but,” he hesitated, drawing the lyrics closer to himself. “Which one of you plays the fairy?” 

Ms. May laughed. “I do.” She took the sheet from his hand, scanning over it. Much like her regular speaking voice, the way she spoke the words was a little deeper and richer. “‘Rest here and wait / There's nothing to do today / and there's nobody to see / no one you gotta please.’ It’s nice. Simple.”

“Except, _she_ won’t be singing that,” Fischer sniped. “It’s not a fucking musical, Aziraphale. It’s all done by the band. This isn’t goddamn Disney.” 

“Ah, well, you sounded lovely reading it regardless. Wasn’t her voice to your liking, Mr. Fischer? Doesn’t that give you something to do your job with?” 

The assistant was asked to show Mr. Aziraphale out so they could record some tests in peace. Aziraphale left the remaining notes with the assistant—Kent, he finally learned, much too late to conceivably use it again—and resolved not to come back.

“Hey, Aziraphale!” Crowley called before he could walk out. Aziraphale turned, unprepared for the sight of him. 

The exceptionally tailored black velvet suit would have been striking enough, but Crowley took it even further, wearing nothing under it. The jacket, with its ornate silver fastenings, was largely overshadowed by his light spread of red chest hair and the freckles splashed across his collarbone. Worse, he’d worn platforms. Aziraphale had known he was taller, but his own conservatively heeled boots had put them nearly eye to eye. Now, he towered, and Aziraphale felt dizzy gazing up at him. 

Crowley’s dark rouged mouth split into a smile as he came to stand before him, kind enough that he either hadn’t noticed how his peacocking had affected Aziraphale or he was simply ignoring it. “Did you hear the screenwriter’s having a kid?” 

“Yes, I heard something about that.” Aziraphale smiled back, his mouth too wet while his throat dried right up. 

“They’re celebrating tonight, over at their flat. It’s not too far away, if you want to pop over. With me,” Crowley added. 

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “I’m heading back home later tonight,” he said, watching Crowley’s face carefully, looking for some kind of clue passed the sunglasses. “Are you sure you want to go with me?” 

The smile stayed on Crowley’s face, although there was maybe a tic or a twitch. He shrugged, shoving his hands at where there should be pockets but instead sliding his palms down flat velvet. Aziraphale pretended not to see. “If you want to. If you don’t have too much packing.” 

“Am I even invited?” 

“I’m not sure _I’m_ invited,” Crowley laughed. “Crash with me and keep me from ruining everyone’s fun?” 

Aziraphale could hardly say no to that.

* * *

Aziraphale could hardly say no to _anything_ Crowley suggested to him. They’d left Fischer’s together and picked up some sparkling wine, Crowley’s idea, and an assortment of profiteroles, which Aziraphale had more or less demanded. Both times they went into the shop together, and both times the appearance of Crowley was met with whispers. Crowley took his elbow and whispered in his ear _Let me_ when they got to the register. Aziraphale didn’t see any reason to protest. 

_Relax_, he teased in the car while driving 80 miles per hour, swerving between vehicles. Aziraphale couldn’t, but he relieved some tension by chewing Crowley’s ear off about road safety, and that made him feel better. 

_Go and sit_, Crowley said once they were inside the Volk’s home and Aziraphale was looking around in growing panic because he really should not have imposed on such a private celebration. But when the glowing Mrs. Volk led him to the sofa, he sat with her while she recounted exactly what her doctor had said to her, how long they’d been trying, and how excited they had been when Chuckie had gotten the job, and now they had two blessings in one year: their first film and their first child! 

_Here_, Crowley murmured, handing him a pastry or another glass of wine, sometimes before going off to float with Eve, sometimes sitting on the arm of the sofa behind him. Aziraphale was telling Mrs. Volk—_Maryann_ she corrected, although Aziraphale could tell she like the formality of being a _Mrs._—what a lovely home she kept. He couldn’t help the thoughtless _thank you, darling_ he said to Crowley, who in turn squeezed his shoulder, warm and affectionate. 

“_Why don’t you take this off?_” he whispered hot in his ear, breath shivering against his neck. His fingers were tugging at the collar of the jacket. “It’s warm, isn’t it?” Crowley said to Mrs. Volk, who nodded and said something about there being more people in the room than the little flat could handle. She got up to open some windows. “Come on, Pigeon.” Crowley leaned in again, one hand now spanning the back of his neck, curling around. “It wouldn’t hurt to get comfortable, would it?”

Aziraphale looked up at him, jaw a little slack. He caught the scent of him, his breath. Crowley pulled back to drink. They were all drinking from random glasses and cups; the Volk’s fine glassware had been exceeded early in the evening. Crowley had a mug with a particularly fierce bulldog on it, from one of the schools in the area. The rim tapped against his sunglasses as he drank, and Aziraphale felt his heart maybe breaking or swelling or something else. 

It was so painful and unfounded and wonderful that he didn’t know what to do with himself. So, he laughed and gave Crowley his plain, blue cup to hold. He took off his jacket, leaving him decent enough in his cosy jumper. He unbuttoned and rolled his shirtsleeves up to his wrists carefully, tucking the cuff over the knit, watching Crowley watch. 

When he took his drink back, Crowley caught his wrist, thumbing over the soft underside, caressing under the fabric, up the curve of his forearm. “Isn’t this nice?” he hissed.

“Of course it is, dear boy,” Aziraphale said, the world seeming completely gone around them. He needed to sober up, or he’d say something inappropriate. Still, it felt so perfect to have Crowley’s fingers on him, tickling lightly over his skin. It made him tingle, squirmy and hot. He wanted Crowley to raise his wrist to his mouth and press a kiss to the plump flesh there. He wanted him to kiss the crook of his elbow, his neck, his knee—all of his particularly soft creases, each vulnerable in their intense sensitivity. “How long have we been here?” 

“Barely an hour,” Crowley grinned, letting Aziraphale pull his hand back so he could gather his jacket and stand. “Long enough.” Crowley got to his feet as well. Aziraphale once again lost his breath at just how tall Crowley was that evening. He felt a little woozy over it, but Crowley took his hand. Aziraphale resolved to sober up in the car.

“Wait, Mr. Aziraphale!” Mr. Volk called from across the room just as Aziraphale was thanking the hostess. He was happily drunk. “We’re going to name him Ezra! Because of the movie!” 

“Oh?” Aziraphale blinked. “And if it’s a girl?” 

“Ezra!” Mr. Volk shouted again, like maybe he thought Aziraphale hadn’t heard him from so far away. 

“Let’s go.” Crowley’s voice hummed in his ear. Aziraphale finished his goodbyes. They walked by Salome coming in, and Crowley pushed passed before Aziraphale could get a look at his face. 

“Oh, but are you all right to drive?” Aziraphale asked, now barely tipsy, half of the way to the car. 

“Steady as a rock,” Crowley said. “Want me to do the alphabet backwards?” 

“Would you?” Aziraphale was convinced of his sobriety, but he was always grateful for a laugh.

* * *

For the last time, Aziraphale unlocked his door and walked Crowley in. He hung up his jacket and took off his shoes. Crowley wandered toward the bed, unbuttoning his own jacket but not taking it off just yet.

“Shall I call down for anything?” Aziraphale asked. Crowley shook his head. He looked serious, like he had something grave he wanted to say. Aziraphale sat on the bed in front of him and reached for his hips. “Would you let me suck your cock?” 

“Is that what you like best?” Crowley asked, covering the hands on his hips with his own fingers. 

Aziraphale thought about it. He finally said: “Gabriel and I saw an American film once. I don’t know if I got over here—I doubt it because it was… Really, it was a horrid film.” He felt himself flushing at the memory. 

Gabriel had said it was _for research_ about the tools of the enemy, and Aziraphale had been so ashamed sitting there that he’d thought Gabriel would be angry at him for being riled up. All of the film had been so disgusting, so far away from acts of love, and yet he’d gotten wet watching it. It was so horrible, and he had felt so embarrassed—but Gabriel hadn’t even minded. He’d seen Aziraphale’s discomfort and swapped oral sex with him in the theater’s filthy bathroom. 

“It’s about a woman, and she… she… Her clitoris is… Well, the title of the film is—”

“_Deep Throat_, yeah, I heard about that one.” Crowley still looked serious, which wasn’t what Aziraphale had been hoping for. He forced a smile, knew how to make it genuine enough to soften Crowley’s face. 

“It’s just a joke between us, a nickname sometimes.” He laughed. He brushed his thumb lightly against the soft velvet over Crowley’s sharp hip bone. “He calls me Deep Throat, and I—Well, he’s not wrong. I mean, not that I actually—” Aziraphale cut himself off, because obviously he didn’t have a clitoris in his throat; humans didn’t grow them there. He’d tried it once and nearly bit Gabriel’s dick off by accident the second it brushed against the tender spot. They’d decided that it was too impractical an idea. 

“That’s not a very romantic nickname,” Crowley finally said. He reached up, cupped Aziraphale’s cheek. 

“It’s okay,” Aziraphale told him. “Not everything has to be.” He didn’t want to talk about it anymore, so he slowly moved a hand from his hip to his crotch, to the fastenings on his pants, undoing them and leaning in to kiss him on the navel and then lower. 

Crowley’s hand found the back of his head, carded through his curls, and pet him lightly as Aziraphale worked him from half to fully hard with his hand. Aziraphale wanted to badly to look him in the eye, but he figured with a desire that intense, it was best he be denied. He could feel himself close to spiraling when it came to Crowley, a human man, which would only cause everyone grief. 

Aziraphale licked his lips. “Will you fuck my face?” he asked. 

“Is that what you want?” His other hand drew up, thumbing over Aziraphale’s wet lower lip. Crowley’s mouth was parted too, his teeth sharp and bright. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale breathed. He thought they’d just gone over it. He didn’t want to have to tell the awful _Deep Throat_ story again. He really didn’t want to have to tell him that he didn’t like anal enough to do it two nights in a row.

“Okay.” Crowley hesitated, and then he asked: “But will you fuck me afterward?” 

“Hmm.” Aziraphale wrapped his lips around Crowley’s thumb as he thought about it. He tested Crowley’s thumbnail against his teeth, lightly. 

“It’s just that,” Crowley cleared his throat. “It’s just that you said you’d put your fingers in me, yesterday morning, and I thought that could be, uh, all right.” 

Aziraphale snapped his eyes open, not having realized they’d drifted shut as he sucked Crowley’s thumb. “Oh,” he said, pulling his mouth off. “Oh, of course. How could I have forgotten? Get on the bed, please.” Crowley shuffled on, his pants clinging around his thighs, his huge platforms making the movements awkward. Aziraphale took mercy and stopped him. “Let’s get these off first.”

* * *

When he had Crowley naked, he laid him on his back, let his soft red hair fan against the stark white pillow like a halo. Aziraphale had stripped down to his own nice drawers and undershirt as well, and he grabbed the K-Y, unsure if he should slick his fingers now or after he’d worked his mouth around Crowley’s prick. It didn’t matter, but he felt overwhelmed by the choice. 

Crowley sat up, strained forward, and kiss him. Slow and warm, he pulled Aziraphale between his legs and let him settle there. Aziraphale carefully supported his own weight, but the kiss made it difficult. All he wanted was to cover Crowley up and kiss him for hours. Crowley kissed so well, so sweetly, and he felt pleasantly familiar even after only a few days. 

Aziraphale slicked up his fingers, mouthing at Crowley’s jaw. There was nothing to worry about, he reminded himself, and this time he believed himself. While Gabriel didn’t usually give himself an anus, he sometimes like Aziraphale play with it when he did. He liked getting fingered, liked getting his prostate massaged while he fucked Aziraphale’s throat. He never had anything negative to say about Aziraphale’s technique or his dedication to sharing pleasure. So, Aziraphale could easily do this for Crowley, who was even more receptive, more sensitive and desperate in his mortality. 

He rubbed the lube on his hole, not dipping in yet, just touching the muscle. He pulled up to look at Crowley, who was blushing behind his sunglasses, and then he shifted down, curled up on his knees, and bent his head to his task.

As expected, Crowley groaned, his hips hitching before he could stop them. Aziraphale tasted him, first with the tip of his tongue, then the flat of it, and then with the back, like he had some impossible itch around his tonsils that he needed scratched. He started to push his fingers in with the slightest pressure: one fingertip, one knuckle, one curling digit, two. 

Crowley got a hand tight in his hair once Aziraphale had taken all of his length into his mouth. Aziraphale tapped his hip to get him to start thrusting, which he did shallowly. Aziraphale didn’t have a gag reflex, but sometimes, when getting fucked like this, he felt his whole body heaving as if he did. Tears welled and threatened to spill, so Aziraphale shut his eyes tight, spit drooling down his own chin, Crowley’s cock hitting the back of his throat and drilling into him just right.

The two fingers he had inside Crowley curled, against the nerve, and Crowley jerked up so hard Aziraphale’s throat convulsed around his dick, which really only made Crowley twist under him worse. Aziraphale made some thrumming sound, trying to comfort him, trying to ruin him. Crowley clutched at his hair, both feet planted on the bed, and rocked against his face. He pulled back, and he snapped forward, and Aziraphale held onto his hips and hummed. 

Crowley guided him back up to the tip, which Aziraphale was happy enough to lave over. He dug his fingers in, meaner than necessary, and the sound Crowley made was higher than either of them expected. Crowley slapped a hand over his mouth, and Aziraphale glanced up, absolutely beside himself with delight. 

“Shut up,” Crowley growled to compensate for the squeal. 

Aziraphale laughed, throaty and wrecked, and he managed out “I didn’t say—”

“Oh, just kiss me,” Crowley demanded, using the hand he still had in Aziraphale’s hair, but mostly a grip he took on his shoulder, to pull him up and to his mouth. 

“But—” but nothing, apparently, because Crowley was making it very clear he had no intention of coming in Aziraphale’s mouth as planned. He was too content rubbing against Aziraphale’s thigh, sighing against his mouth like the heroine in a Harlequin Romance novel. 

Crowley pulled at the cotton undershirt, stretching the collar to get it off. Aziraphale saved the shirt narrowly and helped Crowley remove it. Crowley’s mouth quirked, like he’d won something: an argument or a prize. He wrapped his arms around Aziraphale’s bare shoulders, pulling him tight and close, harshing against his ear: “_Fuck me_.” 

What could Aziraphale do? Say no? 

He shimmied down his pants, took his little, aching cock in hand, and lined himself up with Crowley’s rim. He couldn’t remember where he’d put the lubricant, so he miracled his cock slick. Crowley was sure not to notice, not when he was pushing his narrow hips against him like that. 

Constricted around him, arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders and legs hooked around his sides, Crowley’s grip only got tighter as Aziraphale slowly started to sink in. Aziraphale, for his part, had pressed his face against Crowley’s neck, taking Crowley in his arms, trapping his long prick against his belly. 

_Thank God_, Aziraphale thought, or maybe he said, once he was fully seated inside. Too late, he remembered that he should have opened him up more, stretched him so he wouldn’t be hurt. Crowley made a wavering sound,but it wasn’t pained, and Aziraphale couldn’t have been more relieved. 

Carefully, he drew back and then returned to center, just to test the give of Crowley’s hole. It had been a very long time after all, and the exquisite heat and pressure would have done him over if he hadn’t made sure to bless his corporation with that particular type of endurance. 

He tried again, harder this time, and he felt Crowley swallow against his cheek. Crowley tried to wriggle under him, his sunglasses clacking against his forehead awkwardly, so he said: “Dear, would you—”

“Don’t look,” Crowley panted. “Promise not to look and I will.” 

Aziraphale used all of his strength to not pull up and look at him right then and there. “Whatever it is, Crowley, you don’t have to worry about it.” Crowley groaned, so Aziraphale said: “I won’t look if you don’t want me to. I promise. I won’t look.” Crowley took off the sunglasses, put them aside, and it allowed Aziraphale to get closer, to feel Crowley’s eyelashes flutter along his temple as he started to work up a speed, a rhythm. 

Crowley’s cock was sticky between them, and he seemed very content to let it leak over their stomachs as he clung to Aziraphale, gasping in his ear, beyond words.

If Aziraphale too hadn’t been beyond language, he might have told Crowley how much he loved being inside of him or how good it felt to hold him. He might have said some very unwise things, like how Crowley deserved all the love in the world, how he was very beautiful, and how Aziraphale would miss him for years even after knowing him for only hours. 

“Aah,” Crowley barely got out as Aziraphale hitched his thighs up a little higher. “I’m gonna come.” Aziraphale nodded into his throat and pumped his hips to help him along. When he came, Aziraphale joined him soon after, spurred over the edge by the feeling of Crowley bearing down and the sound of his choked crying and the way he scrambled at his back. 

Aziraphale pressed himself firmly against Crowley’s throat, not trusting himself to keep from drawing up and looking Crowley in the eye. Surely, that would have been the end of him and his resolve. He caught his breath while Crowley worked through some residual shakes. Slowly, after their hearts had stopped pounding so hard, Crowley let go of him.

* * *

Crowley lay flat on his back, eyes shut while Aziraphale cleaned him off: first his flat, firm stomach, and then between his thighs, and then over his hole. He finally got to look at his face, his whole face with light eyelashes and tiny freckles on the eyelids. 

For all the makeup that Crowley wore, his eyes were untouched. But why would he need to do them anyway, if all the paints and glitter would end up hidden? Aziraphale almost got distracted by how unsmudged Crowley’s lips remained. He desperately wanted to know how Crowley accomplished that. Aziraphale always had to use a miracle to keep his makeup on like that.

He brushed a hand over the snake tattoo that he’d only caught glimpses of in their time together, always obscured by one thing or another. “This is pretty,” he told him lightly. He traced the shape vaguely, watching Crowley’s eyelids twitch. “Did it hurt very much to get it?” 

Crowley reached out for his sunglasses and put them back in place. ‘Nah,” he said. He was lying, but Aziraphale knew how men could be about admitting to pain. 

“How wonderful you are,” Aziraphale said, leaning in to brush his lips against the snake. “Absolutely tremendous.” Straightening up, he placed a hand over Crowley’s heart, feeling it pump wildly at the words. “You should be so very happy all the days of your life.” 

“Why don’t you stay?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale didn’t pull his hand back, although he did now wonder if Crowley’s heartbeat was more to do with building up the nerve to say that. Maybe he hadn’t even been listening to Aziraphale’s little blessing. “You don’t have to go back. It’s not your home. I don’t think you’re happy there.” 

“I’m happy sometimes,” Aziraphale said. “I’m happy enough.” 

“You don’t have to go back just yet. You can stay here. Not with me, not _for_ me, but I can introduce you to people. Nice people,” he said, like he was embarrassed to know such types. 

“Oh, my dear.” Aziraphale waned to scoop him up in his arms and kiss him all over. He hated to see him so upset over this. “I appreciate the offer, I do. Thank you.” 

“Don’t _thank_ me, just say yes. Don’t go. Stay a little while, and then a little while longer.” 

Aziraphale could have said yes. He could have stayed for a few weeks, to explain why Crowley needn’t worry over him. He could tour the countryside like he hadn’t in ages. He could stay for a few months, meet all of Crowley’s friends, and make sure Crowley found someone to be beautiful and happy with. He could even stay for 50 years, watch over Crowley as he grew old and died. He’d always be able to go back to Gabriel, no matter how angry he made him.

But it wouldn’t do him any good to become attached to a human like that. He’d had a difficult enough time when his mailman’s wife got leukemia and passed. To love a human exceptionally, something he carefully did his best to abstain from for centuries now, only made being with Gabriel lonelier, and that made his existence verge on unbearable. 

“For all that we fight, and it’s not even that much,” Aziraphale tried to explain, pulling his hand back finally to rest on his own lap. “I love Gabriel. I can’t leave him like that. I really don’t want to.” Crowley frowned, his thin mouth pulling even tighter. “It’s not as if he’s cruel to me,” he said. “In fact, I’m far more horrible to him. The things I said before I left…” It hadn’t even been the first time he’d said it: that in no uncertain terms, if Aziraphale ever met anyone anywhere who was willing to be with him the way he needed, he’d leave Gabriel without a second thought. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale sighed, when Crowley looked like he was truly disturbed by the situation. “But you’re a dear, dear thing for having said all of that. How about I write you from America?” 

“No.”

“Ah. Well.” Aziraphale forced a smile. “All right. I’ll leave you my address if you change your mind.” 

“I won’t,” Crowley said. 

“Don’t be cross with me.” Aziraphale felt a familiar tension returning to his back and neck. “I’d bore you in no time if I stayed,” he said, trying to get Crowley to laugh, to at least smile. “I’m terribly dull. All I do is eat and read. You’d exhaust me in no time too, I’m sure.”

“I wouldn’t.” Crowley pushed himself up to sit against the headboard. He didn’t even sound hurt at the insult. “We’d have a perfect time together, if you’d just stay for a bit. Not for me,” he added against quickly. “I can’t—but you could meet someone else. Someone better.” 

Aziraphale stood, picking up his clothes and redressing. 

Crowley rolled his head back, groaning. Aziraphale had his underclothes on and was unpackaging his freshly laundered shirt. “Can’t you at least—just sleep with me tonight?” he asked. “You don’t have to go running back to him right now. He can wait. You must be tired. Let’s just sleep together, and I’ll drive you to the airport in the morning. I’ll even get them to refund your ticket.” Crowley said. He crawled forward on the bed and snagged Aziraphale’s hand, pulling his back. “Just stay with me a little longer.” 

Looking at him, Aziraphale wanted to say that he couldn’t see why it mattered. It would have been a lie, but he wanted to be able to say it. Instead, he nodded, changed instead into his night clothes, and lay down beside him. Crowley kissed him into the mattress, and Aziraphale rethought his prior reluctance to taking it two nights in a row as he felt Crowley’s cock hot against his own.

* * *

When they were both properly fucked out and Crowley was fast asleep, Aziraphale gathered his things. He’d tried, really tried, to fall asleep, but he couldn’t. He dressed silently, one eye always on Crowley to make sure he didn’t stir. He jotted down his address and left it atop the table on Crowley’s side of the bed, folded over his glasses so he’d have to at least look at it. 

Travel bag in hand, he stepped into the bathroom and shut the door behind him. He checked his appearance, fixing his hair. He thought about miracling the lovebites away but realized they’d be too missed if he lost them so soon. After checking one last time to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything, he snapped his fingers and was sent home.

* * *

Gabriel wasn’t there anyway. Gabriel wasn’t back for another week, and by the time he showed up, looking smug with himself for not only his noble work with the pope but for having Aziraphale so well under heel, the bruises had mostly faded. 

“I missed you,” Gabriel said, pulling Aziraphale into his arms. He smelled perfect, like the surface of the sun, and like bourbon. “Let’s try not to fight again,” he said, pulling back. “Look how sad it makes you.” He thumbed at one of the bags under Aziraphale’s eye, and then pressed the lightest kiss he could there. “It really ruins my day when you leave like that.” 

Aziraphale lifted his face up and kissed him. Gabriel took him to bed. Gabriel kissed him on the cunt for hours, telling him how glad he was that Aziraphale had kept that effort just for them to use together. When Aziraphale finally started to cry because he couldn’t stop trembling, he begged for someone to take mercy on him. Gabriel only then made love to him, licking his tears away. 

They never talked about their time apart.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all of these chapters, i have been haunted by one question: what hairstyle does Crowley have? unfortunately, this is nothing i could ever answer satisfactorily, so please, imagine whatever makes you happiest.
> 
> Also I really went back and forth on the deep throat reference. Lovelace has come forward at this point and said that she was forced into acting in the film, so I do not suggest anyone watch the movie. But I also wanted to talk about Aziraphale having a clit in his throat, and I really couldn't think of a way to incorporate that without mentioning the film. So I'm conflicted but here we are


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one million thanks to [hanggracefully](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanggracefully) and [shabnam_e_maghz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shabnam_e_maghz/pseuds/shabnam_e_maghz) for reading over this, and another million thanks to all of you for your kind words and patience!

(Friday)

Crowley woke up alone.

Whatever.

* * *

Eve gave him a wink and a grin when he came back in, putting down his notebook to give Crowley his full attention. Crowley didn’t know how to respond to any of it. His blank stare was apparently enough of a giveaway because Eve’s face fell. 

“Trouble in paradise?” 

Crowley shrugged. He’d put on the velvet suit just to walk back to the room. Now he just wanted to get comfortable and curl into bed for a week. “Nah,” he postured regardless. “He had to head back. It’s no big deal.” 

“Was it a heartfelt goodbye?” Eve winced in sympathy. 

“Nope. I heard him get up to putter around in the bathroom, but I must have dozed back off. He’d split. It’s fine.” Crowley tossed down the platform boots he’d carried with him harder than necessary. 

“Bummer,” Eve said after a second. “What a bastard.” He brightened, saying: “But now that I know your type, I can set you up with loads of guys. You’ve got some dandy days ahead,” Even promised.

“Thanks,” Crowley said. It was nice, but the very thought of it made his skin crawl. “I don’t think I really have a type.” He didn’t think he was all that interested in anyone who might remind him of Aziraphale. One had been enough to remind himself why he didn’t do this. 

There was nothing to say to that, so Eve offered him a weak smile and then got back to his scribbling.

* * *

Paul Fischer greeted Temptation that morning like they were his oldest friends. “My boys!” he shouted, smiling wide. He pat them on the back, and Crowley even caught him humming. _Ding, dong, the witch is dead._

Mr. Volk was chatting with a woman and young man, in good spirits but rather deflated from his excessive drinking the night before.

“Are you calling Dr. Woodcock then?” Crowley asked. 

“No, no, Mr. Aziraphale was more than enough for me. Plus, he did make some good suggestions.” Paul walked off without another word, out of it enough to not realize. 

“This is gonna be a mess,” Eve said. He couldn’t have been happier. 

“The expert left?” Salome asked, getting all cow-eyed and hopeful about it.

“Yeah, this morning,” Eve said. “Didn’t even pop over to give me a kiss goodbye,” he sniffed, leading Salome away before Crowley could determine how he felt about Salome’s excitement.

Crowley was startled from his thoughts by Mr. Volk approaching him. It had clearly taken some courage, because when Crowley looked at Mr. Volk flatly, he hesitated a few paces away. “My wife wanted me to invite you and Mr. Aziraphale to visit again sometime soon,” Mr. Volk said once he’d worked up enough nerve to walk the rest of the way to Crowley. He cleaned his spotless glasses so he didn’t have to look him in the eye. “When will Mr. Aziraphale be visiting you next?”

“He won’t be visiting me.” Crowley kept his face neutral, despite his rapidly failing patience. 

“Oh!” Mr. Volk looked confused. “Um.” He snapped his mouth shut and reset his glasses, hesitating another moment. “It’s just you two seemed close at the party, and Maryann thought—oh, but I’m so sorry.” He shifted his weight. “How embarrassing of me, to assume like that.”

“Yes. Embarrassing.” 

“Well, then, I’ll…” Mr. Volk cleared his throat. It didn’t occur to him, or he didn’t want, to extend the invitation to Crowley alone. It was for the best; Crowley might not have even gone. Mr. Volk thin-lipped a smile, and he left to return to his work.

* * *

“Can I buy you a drink?” Salome asked, sidling up next to him at the hotel bar.

“I’m good,” Crowley said, indicating the bottle of Glenfiddich that he’d commandeered.

Salome hesitated, and then smiled the tiniest bit. “Buy me a drink?” 

Crowley made a sign to the bartender, who slid him a second snifter. 

“I was hoping for a Tom Collins,” Salome said. Crowley looked at him, trying to decipher if he was joking or not. Salome hadn’t been, but he cleared his throat and nodded. “This is good.” 

“What do you want?” 

“I just wanted to see how you were,” Salome said, watching Crowley’s throat work as he took a sip. He took his own sip, licking the taste off his lips with only a little wince. “After that idiot left you like that.” 

“Like what?” Crowley had had too much to drink already, and this all felt absurd and awfully funny. He wanted a fight, maybe, if he could get one. 

Salome squirmed under his gaze, even if he couldn’t see his eyes. He didn’t answer, because he didn’t share Crowley’s desire for a row. “That guy, he’s a bastard. He didn’t even really like you, so you shouldn’t be sad that he’s gone. You shouldn’t even think about him. He’s not worth it. He already has a guy, in America.” 

“I know.”

“You knew.” Salome repeated, his face dropping. “Then why are you so upset?” 

Crowley snorted into his drink. “I’m not upset.” 

“You obviously are,” Salome told him, his voice so haughty and so certain. “And I don’t understand it, because you could do better than a boring, old professor.” He put his hand on the bar between them, eyes on Crowley’s sunglasses and then his mouth and then his fingers, curled around the glass. “Don’t you know you can do better?” 

He knew how Salome felt about him, because his being desirable was one of the main reasons fame had been awarded to _Anthony J. Crowley III_ (and the II before him, and the I before him, and a number of names Crowley had taken even before that). Crowley wouldn’t have gotten Hell to sign off on their operative being in the spotlight so often if he hadn’t promised to inspire envy and lust and idolatry. He’d even promised that all of Temptation’s biggest concerts would be late on Saturday nights, so the kids who went would be too tired for church in the morning. 

With Salome, Crowley had done his best to be friendly and encourage him to look elsewhere. And he’d known that Salome didn’t like Aziraphale because Eve had told him. But the night before, as Crowley was leaving for the Volks’, Salome had said that all he wanted was for Crowley to be happy with someone who would treat him right. Crowley had regarded it as a strange but positive concession then, and he’d thanked Salome for it. After thinking about it incessantly all day, he wasn’t sure. Had Salome said something to Aziraphale? Had he known this would happen? 

“I’m not interested in little boys dogging behind me, nipping at my heels.” Crowley chose to hiss. “I’ll just say it outright because you’re too thick to get what I’ve been trying to say gently. Stop sniffing around me. I don’t want you.”

Salome didn’t respond, head ducked. His only movement was his fingertip against the rim of his glass as he stroked a centimeter back and forth. “I can’t see why,” Salome said, voice shaking. His voice rose, he glared at Crowley, and he sniped back: “I can’t see what he has that I don’t, when I’m so obviously better.” 

Crowley leaned back. He finished his glass and poured another. “You wanna fuck me?” he asked. “Will that stop your infatuation?” 

“Snake, why are you acting like this?” Salome whined, high like the child he was, which meant that Crowley had really struck a nerve. 

“You want me to suck your cock?” Crowley asked, not particularly low, not like he would say if he shared the desire. “You want to suck mine? What? You want me to fuck you? What on earth will get you to act like a normal person around me?” 

Salome couldn’t answer. Crowley sighed and slammed back another drink much too quickly. He took Salome by the hand, and they went to his room. Neither of them said it directly, but that night they broke up the band.

* * *

Salome was right: there was no reason for him to have been thinking about Aziraphale. He just couldn’t help it. 

Aziraphale had left him an address. California. Crowley couldn’t imagine him in California, but he really didn’t know him that well. He drafted a few letters between writing and recording, simple things like 

_Irnest Aziraphale,_

_What the fuck is wrong with you? You and that twat Gabriel **DO** deserve each other and I hope you make each other miserable for the rest of your short, inconsequential lives!!_

_**ALSO** does Gabriel know how you low like a slut when you get fucked by a huge cock? Does he know how your toes curl?? Does he know how you sound when you sing with a cock in your mouth? Have you ever made a sound even **close** to that for **him**?_

_XO_

_Crowley_

which of course he never sent, because even when writing the words he knew he didn’t mean them. Even if he did want to know if Aziraphale ever woke Gabriel up with his little birdsong, sleepy humming pressed around his cock to greet the dawn, he did not have the words to ask. More than that, he didn’t want to know the answer. If Aziraphale didn’t do that for Gabriel, then Crowley and he had done something special, which Crowley couldn’t bear. If he did, Crowley might swallow his own tongue out of jealousy.

* * *

Temptation finished the _The Way Home_ album, and the movie came out in 1980. It received an unexpected theatrical run instead of the planned screening on television. Temptation attended the premiere; Mr. Aziraphale did not. Crowley didn’t look for him or even think about him. He could barely remember what he smelled like or the shaking sound of his breath when he’d eased his cock into Crowley. People liked the movie all right, and the album sales were solid. “The Wizard’s Song” played on the radio, and not just on the university stations but the bigger programs as well. 

But watching Sidney York embrace his teary-eyed parents felt a little perverse, especially with Percy immobile and restuffed, transformed back into a teddy bear. If Crowley had been thinking about Aziraphale, he would have thought how coolly angry he might be about the whole thing, or how Crowley might goad him into really blowing up and making an arse out of Fischer and himself, right there in the theater. 

The audience applauded. Paul Fischer looked so proud. He gushed to anyone who would listen at the afterparty about how high-minded his changes to Fell’s original story were. Crowley cut out early. 

Eve and Salome were talking generally about another album, another tour, another five-year strategy with their manager, Salome always with one eye on Crowley, daring him to say anything to the contrary. Crowley was through with the whole ordeal, through with his inability to go anywhere without some sense of expectation, through with the schedule, and doubly through with how Salome looked at him as though he’d hung the moon and then ripped it away. 

It wasn’t like they were fighting all the time, and Crowley could usually let his public personas live about ten or fifteen years before people wondered why he wasn’t getting older. But Crowley was tired, and he wasn’t happy, and even if how happy he was didn’t matter, he figured a great way to knock some evil into the world was to cause a horrible rift through his disappearance. 

He made his death a tragedy, but not something that anyone could reasonably feel guilt over. A freak accident: struck by lightning on a clear summer day while sunbathing on the roof of the hotel he was weekending at in Nice. He didn’t even have to fake the scene. He just put the right thought in the right investigator’s mind and whipped up a few smoking photos to be leaked to the press. 

There were televised statements from Eve and Salome, each of them looking devastated in their own way. “This is a loss I can’t understand,” Eve had said quietly into a microphone, found by some pressing paparazzo late one night. “I never thought something like this would happen to someone like him.” He repeated it twice: “I can’t understand it.” 

Salome punched a guy in the mouth for asking about it, and he got taken to court for assault. 

Next time, Crowley wouldn’t involve other people in his quest for attention.

* * *

He cut his hair short and changed his style of sunglasses, looking more like a crew cut brat than any bygone glitter punk. He got an apartment in Glasgow; he’d always liked Scotland enough. He bought a few plants because he’d been reading about gardening and come up with some ideas for stress relief. 

Crowley met his neighbors and took long drives up in the highlands for no reason. He dressed in softer fabrics: more silk and velvet and angora. He got into MTV and _General Hospital_ repeats. He had a fireplace installed in his living room, so he could watch TV all night. The only did temptations he did were quick and mostly over the phone.

He tried to get into the correct kind of trouble, but the 80s proved a difficulty for him. He watched the news, more and more voraciously as 1981 tumbled into 1982. He’d never been able to cloister himself away during any of the past plagues. He didn’t have the heart to not bear witness. He’d drafted a few memos (**_Why Curing Gay-related Immune Deficiency is Beneficial To Hell._ Point 1: Christians will act poorly if homosexuals and drug users continue to exist**) but he’d been informed that the inactivity over this issue was much more productive in securing souls for Hell and that he was strictly not to interfere. Crowley had often gotten reprimanded during times of sickness for acting undemonly, and his activity was monitored so closely over the issue that when he warded Eve up against the virus, he was promptly dragged back to Hell for some light torture (mostly paperwork in the newly built Ronald Reagan Wing.) 

He was sent back up in 1996, because he was one of the better topside agents in Hell and the only one who never complained about his assignment. Crowley’s apartment was untouched because the door knew better than to open for anyone but him, but everything was dirty and disgusting and the plants had all wasted away.

But he was shaky from having been gone for so long, and he felt exhausted. Hell had gone all in on the no rest for the wicked thing. His back hurt, his skin felt too tight around his human bones, and everything was so bright and warm and comforting (comparatively). He fell into his dusty, old bed and slept through the turn of the millennia.

When he got up, in 2001, he cleaned his apartment and did inventory on his affairs. Eve had left the public eye to raise a child, seeming more than happy to have a successful, breadwinner wife. Salome, now Sir Rutger White, had exchanged his glam ideals for international acclaim. He kept his hair short, wore nice suits, won an academy award for scoring a space epic, and performed with a symphony when he brought himself to tour. People could manage their HIV, if they had the medication. 

Crowley got a nice TV and a game system. He got an mp3 player and a block cell phone (and then a bigger one, and then a thin one, and then a huge one again). Things were changing so quickly, and it was nice enough to just keep up with that for a while. Everyone was forgetting about Snake, except the diehards, but he couldn’t be expected to do anything about that. Temptation only ever played on oldies station. By the late 2000s, he could even listen without feeling weird about it. 

In 2010, Hell started to wonder more obnoxiously what exactly he was doing up there. It had, after all, been a long time since he’d sown his particular brand of idolatry, which he had outlined in his 250-year plan presentation back in the early 1900s. 

If he was going to watch so much TV, he might as well be on it.

* * *

“What’s this interview for again?” Crowley asked. Hannah was walking him down the hotel hallway, passing conference room after conference room. It wouldn’t have mattered if he’d known which room they were going to specifically because he was playing around on his phone. Hannah and co. had gotten him some commercial deal with a new pay-to-play app—Downstairs had been thrilled about that once Crowley had explained what pay-to-play was. Crowley had already sunk 15 quid into the game so his hero could have cool sunglasses. 

Hannah stopped outside a room and Crowley managed to not walk into her just barely, pulling to a halt with enough flair that Hannah sighed. It was only 8:00 am and she had only had one espresso since 6:00, which Crowley knew because he was trying to tempt her off of them because the heightened anxiety they caused was taking a toll on her heart. It wasn’t that he had gotten soft; he just didn’t want to have to find a new manager. 

“It’s an interview with a few magazines and entertainment blogs. If anyone goes too far below the belt, you can leave.” 

“This the one about the 40 years since,” and then he made the sound of a lightning strike, “Or is it my Emmy?” He’d just won it last night, and he was still gloating. 

“The first,” Hannah said, and then reminded him she’d already had a press release sent out about his Emmy win. Part of what Crowley liked about Hannah was she never got sentimental about anything. She opened the door for him, didn’t give him any sort of sympathetic look, and walked in with him to greet the press. 

“Hey, guys,” Crowley sauntered in. “Why the long faces? Did someone die?” He heard Hannah sigh behind him, which just egged him on more. It didn’t help that everyone in the room looked so somber. One man was even dressed in funeral black, as if he were in mourning. Although, Crowley realized as he sat down, he very well could have been in his own unrelated event. Crowley grinned at him specifically. 

The interview was fairly expected. Did he miss his father? _No, he’d barely met the guy._ Was he sad Anthony J. Crowley III died when he was so young? _No, he didn’t really think about it._ How did he feel about the art his father had left behind? Crowley couldn’t help but roll his eyes. After all, everyone knew Salome’s solo work later in his career was stronger. 

“How do you feel about the upcoming _Way Home_ remake?” the man in mourning asked. 

“The what?” Crowley looked at Hannah, who was already tapping away at her phone for an explanation. He looked back at the man, who smiled with his eyebrows drawn, like Crowley not knowing was irregular.

“_The Way Home_ live action film. It was just confirmed by Columbia and Sony. An intern leaked it on Village Roadshow’s twitter.” And then he said to the other reported: “They’re co-producing.” 

“Uhhh…” Crowley rubbed behind his ear, at his neck, not sure what there was to say about any of it. 

“People online are already calling it a shameless cashgrab after a beloved family classic,” the man in mourning said. “Do you agree?”

“Er, um… ye—No—I don’t know.”

“Do you find it insulting to your father’s memory that they would announce that today?” someone else asked. 

“What? No.” Crowley looked at Hannah again for help. “No,” he said to the reporters, as she was still frantically searching for information, or maybe berating her assistant for not having warned them. “I don’t know anything about it.” 

“But doesn’t it seem a little tasteless?” the mourner asked, scrunching his face up in a weird, ugly smile. 

Crowley rounded on him. “Tasteless?” 

“That’s time, everyone. Mr. Crowley has another meeting.” Hannah dropped her phone in her purse and clacked her heels louder than necessary to collect Crowley from his chair. “We’ll release a statement on _The Way Home_ on a day less significant. I’m sure you all understand.” She nearly grabbed him by the collar to haul him up and get him walking away, faster than any of the journalists or bloggers could get their things together to follow them. 

It wasn’t until they were in the privacy of the elevator, heading up to Crowley’s suite, that Hannah turned to him. “Those fucking bastards,” she said. One of the other things Crowley liked about Hannah was how immediately she could blow things out of proportion, especially when it was on his behalf. “How could we have possibly known? Columbia and Sony confirmed _during the interview_. I’ll talk to Tura and have her sort this all out. I cannot believe this.” 

“I want to be in the movie,” Crowley said. Hannah snapped her mouth shut and glared at him. They had similar complexions, so it was interesting to see her get red like she was. He’d never gotten red like that, or at least he thought so. When she didn’t say anything, he clarified what he meant. “I want a part in the new _Way Home_ flick.” 

“Crowley, that’s stupid. This is a kid’s movie. You just won an Emmy for an adult retro-futurist take on Edward II. You do sci-fi, you do historical, and you do sexy. You don’t do children’s. This is not your audience base.”

“Plenty of pervs have kids.” Crowley told her. The elevator dinged, and they stepped out. Lighter he said: “Everybody likes _The Way Home_.” Hannah leveled a stare at him. The stare said that she knew he was an idiot, but also that he was about to get his way. “I wanna branch out, and it’s not even that different. I’ve done the raunchy thing. Let me put my artistry into the homoerotic ramblings of a Christian cocaine addict.” 

“I don’t know why I even try,” Hannah sighed. “You can’t say any of that to the press. The last thing your image needs is you getting fired from a movie for being overly literate. I’ll talk to Tura and see what we can set up.”

* * *

Turned out, the studio wanted Crowley for the movie. Desperately, almost, and the amount of money they were willing to give to him nearly made Crowley blush. “You, Mr. Anthony J. Crowley IV,” the producer said over Skype. “You are the wizard.” 

Crowley had figured himself more as Mr. York, or maybe the golem who teaches the boys about the virtue of patience through an elaborate and extended explanation of the natural rhythms of the earth. “I’m the wizard,” he said though thoughtfully, nodding to Hannah. She grimaced. 

“The film is a bit funny, though,” the producer said. “It’s the passion project of the young lady who did the latest Marvel movie.” Crowley couldn’t keep track of those, so that didn’t really mean anything. “She wants to make the movie in a very particular way, being that her father worked on the film in the 70s as well. She’s bringing in some of the old voice actors, and Rutger White will do the scoring. A few more odds and ends.” 

“What’s her name?” Crowley blinked. 

“Ezzy Volk.” Hannah hissed. “You don’t know the director’s name?” 

“Volk.” Crowley said. “The screenwriter?” 

“The director. Jesus, Crowley, pay attention.” 

“You’ll be filming on location in Tadfield. You don’t mind coming down for some country air, do you?” The producer said it in a way that made it clear Crowley didn’t need to respond, because no one in their right mind would pass up that offer. The producer himself wanted some country air, and he was jealous of Crowley’s opportunity to get at it. Crowley would breathe extra deep just for him. “We’ll send the script your way,” the producer said, and he and Hannah talked business while Crowley thought what he might mean by _odds and ends_.

* * *

Between shooting the pay-to-play game ads and working on a few more TV projects, he had a bit of quiet before readthroughs for _The Way Home_, which was slotted to start production in late 2019. He bought the special edition Blu-Ray of _Paul Fischer’s The Way Home_ and watched the director’s commentary. It was Paul and one of the voice actors and the head animator who Crowley didn’t remember ever meeting. The commentary had actually been recorded for the 2004 DVD release, before Paul’s heart gave out. It seemed okay enough, though. 

It was mostly inane, although every now and then Paul would mention “the expert” in a cold tone and the other commentators would get awkwardly silent until one of them could think of a new topic. 

“As beautiful as the film is, and as lovely it was working with everyone,” the woman said, “It all feels bittersweet. Snake died only a few weeks after the film premiered and Chuck—Charlie Volk—oh, what happened to him?”

“It was a mugging,” the animator said after clearing his throat. “Really, just really awful.” 

“Terrible,” she agreed. 

“Mr. Aziraphale, the Ezra Fell expert,” Paul spat out, “Sent _me_ condolences over Snake’s death, and about a month late! Like he hadn’t even heard.” And there was that silence again.

Aziraphale. Crowley hadn’t thought about him in years. Definitely not since he’d gotten out of Hell. Even when _The Way Home_ was mentioned, he’d only remembered the music really. Aziraphale couldn’t have still been alive, Crowley figured. He’d have to be 90 years old, at least. Crowley tried to imagine him, frail and wrinkled, but he could hardly remember his face enough to picture it, aged or otherwise.

* * *

(To say that Crowley didn’t remember Aziraphale was a lie, but only slightly. He had dreams, and he’d had them since they’d parted 40 years ago. They weren’t dreams of anything much, but if Crowley considered them for more than two seconds, he knew what they were about. It wasn’t as if anything had a shape, but he could feel breath against his neck. He could feel a hand on his shoulder, or cradling his head, or cupping the back of his thigh. He dreamed he was held, and he would wake up, shaking and weepy, to birdsong.

But that could have been about anybody.)

* * *

2019

(Tuesday)

Crowley met Ezzy Volk the morning of the first readthrough. She had her father’s round face and his nearsightedness, although she wore a different, more fashionable style of glasses. Where the scriptwriter had been mousy and nervous, she was very serious, incredibly intense, with her mother’s clear, blue stare. She shook his hand, her face going through the motions of a smile as she welcomed him to the project.

There were two boys at the table, Adam and Warlock, he was told, and Warlock looked at him with a wonder that should have been reserved for Mickey Mouse or whatever kids were watching these days. Adam didn’t know him from, well, someone else. A few other actors who he recognized or didn’t were there too, and he took a seat next to Hannah, who was furiously texting about the double beds in their shared room at Tadfield's one hotel. She and Crowley were queens, at least! 

“Ms. May, who’ll be playing the fairy, won’t be joining us today.” Ezzy said without any further explanation. “So, we’re just waiting on my assistant, who’s driving in from the airport with the consultant.” 

“The consultant?” Crowley heard himself ask.

“Mr. Aziraphale,” Ezzy explained, handing out scripts. “He’s done some scholarship on Fell, and he advised on the script in the 70s.” 

Crowley nearly choked. “What?” 

The assistant walked in first, gushing a _so sorry I’m late_, holding the door open for someone. “I had to talk him out of stopping by the inn with his luggage. No one’s going to rob him out here,” the assistant said under her voice, although loud enough for everyone to hear. Crowley felt his own heart constrict. There was panic licking up his back, shattering through him at a rapid pace. Could he handle seeing Aziraphale, old and decrepit? He wasn’t sure he could bear this. 

“I simply wanted to wash my face and change my shirt,” Aziraphale piped, his voice jolting a wild sense memory Crowley’s system. “I don’t see why you couldn’t start without me, considering you’ll be doing this again.” He walked in. 

He looked the same. He looked exactly the same. Crowley thought his tongue was swelling, or maybe he had too much saliva in his mouth that he needed to swallow or spit out. Down to the clothes, the color palette, the prissy little smile, the wrinkles around his eyes that meant he wasn’t actually upset. He hadn’t changed at all. 

_Oh, shit,_ Crowley thought, feeling like the stupidest being in the entire universe. _Azirapahle’s not human_.

* * *

Aziraphale scanned the table and landed on Crowley, and there was recognition followed by open confusion. But he gave Crowley a polite smile, and he sat down next to the assistant. 

Ezzy introduced Aziraphale to everyone formally and then quickly ran through the whole table. “This is Anthony Crowley,” she said gesturing to him as he tried to look like he wasn’t on the verge of discorporating. “You would have met his father—although, I hope you don’t mind me saying: I thought you would be older. You must have been very young when you started your work on Ezra Fell.” 

“Oh, my dear, you flatter me.” Aziraphale didn’t seem at all worried about being found out about it. And his gaze kept drifting to Crowley, clearly trying to figure him out. Crowley too wanted to know what Aziraphale was. He worried. After all, Crowley had called him _holy_, told him he was made for love. For him to be an angel would make sense, and it made Crowley sweat and shift uncomfortably. He didn’t want to get smote by the last person he’d had sex with. 

When Aziraphale saw that Crowley’d caught him looking, he ducked his head like he was the one who had done something wrong. Crowley had to hope that meant he hadn’t placed Crowley’s brand of inhumanity quite yet. But it was really only a matter of time, and the readthrough was only just starting.

* * *

Crowley had been caught and cornered almost immediately when they took a break halfway through the script. 

“Mr. Crowley!” Aziraphale met him beside the refreshment table, his hands clasped in front of him. Crowley had to look him over for a second before he was able to even think about responding. 

He couldn't help but check if the clothes were the same because the colors and materials were just as they were in the 70s. The jumper looked horrifically familiar. His body looked familiar: sturdy where Crowley knew him to be sturdy, soft where Crowley remembered him to be soft. His hair wisped around his ears, maybe a little shorter, but still a practical _halo_ of white—_fuck_. No new wrinkles, no liver spots, and there was a hickey peeking out from under his shirt collar. Crowley wouldn’t have noticed—it was faded and mostly hidden away—but his attention was so singularly focused he thought he might be able to see even his pulse beating in his neck.

“Oh, I’ve interrupted you.” Aziraphale’s smile stayed in place, but Crowley could tell it was a near thing. It was like Crowley could taste the rise of Aziraphale’s body temperature on his tongue, just as well as he could see the pink of his cheeks or hear the slight hitch of his breathing. Aziraphale was still as uncertain as ever, as nervous. In the same vein, he was obviously still affected by Crowley’s looks, relaxed by his smile, and wanting of his attention. 

“No, no,” Crowley said as low as he could. _Come close, come closer,_ he tried to say by showing his teeth in a smile. _Don’t hurt me_. “Sorry, I just wasn’t expecting you, Aziraphale.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes brightened and he puffed up in his pleasure. Like a bird; Crowley remembered. He’d never really been able to forget. Either Crowley’s tone went over Aziraphale’s head, or he was happy to pretend he hadn’t noticed it. “Oh, you know my name!” Aziraphale larked. Why was that what surprised him? “I feel positively tickled.” 

“Why wouldn’t I know your name?” Crowley laughed.

“Oh, you’re a big movie actor! You must work with a lot of people.”

“But you’re not people,” Crowley told him. He nearly took him by the hand, which he glanced at just to remind himself why he shouldn’t. Still manicured, still plump, the skin still so obviously soft. He had that silly pinky ring still. And now a thing, gold band on his ring finger, which was new but unconcerning in Crowley's opinion. 

Crowley wasn’t sure how to get him to drop the act because no one was listening and he _wanted_ to ask and to know everything about him. 

“I hope it’s not horrible for me to say,” Aziraphale started, and he wrung his hands a little. “You just look so much like your father. I almost thought you were him!” Crowley felt the blood leave his face. Aziraphale piped a laugh. “Like he hadn’t aged a day since I’d met him!” 

“Uhh.”

“But, of course, impossible!” The corners of Aziraphale’s mouth pinched as he watched Crowley. “I’ve embarrassed you,” he decided from whatever Crowley’s face was doing. Crowley certainly wasn’t sure. 

“Er, no,” Crowley somehow managed to get out. “It’s just that—well, _I’m_—” Crowley didn’t know how to say it if Aziraphale didn’t already know. If he admitted it, Aziraphale might shrink away, or try to discorporate him. And since Aziraphale had come over to him, so bright and happy, Crowley felt entirely averse to not having that glowing attention continued in his direction. 

On the other hand, if he didn’t say anything and then Aziraphale realized on his own, would Aziraphale resent him for lying? 

Crowley wished he had a couch to fall back onto. 

Instead, his fingers itched, and he cleared his throat. He took off his sunglasses in a quick, thoughtless motion. Aziraphale saw his eyes, smile faltering. Crowley heard his breath, and he blinked against the sharp, fluorescent lighting. 

“Oh, my,” Aziraphale said. His fingertips pressed over his mouth as he looked at Crowley’s eyes. “My goodness,” he said, and then he smiled. “How incredible!” He leaned in closer, inspecting as much as he could without taking his face between his hands. Aziraphale was only an inch shorter than him, maybe, but still he pressed up on his toes, wanting a good look at him. “They’re beautiful.” 

Crowley felt himself grinning. He tried not to, but he couldn’t help it. _Beautiful_. He called them _beautiful_—his wicked, old eyes! He felt his cheeks heating, his jaw loosening, his throat constricting around nothing. 

“Are they uncomfortable?” Aziraphale asked, close enough now that his breath hushed against Crowley’s lips. To Crowley, it seemed like Aziraphale was gazing into his eyes in that moony way lovers do, even if rationally he knew he was still only examining. 

“They’re fine,” Crowley said as softly as possible to not disturb him. 

“You can’t even see the lenses,” Aziraphale murmured. “I’ve never seen anything like it! Are you wearing them to get used to it before filming, or were you just trying them out for the day?” 

“No,” Crowley choked. “They’re more like, ah, permanent?” 

Aziraphale looked surprised. “So, they’ll be like this for the whole shooting?” 

Crowley felt officially like an ass, so he put the sunglasses back on.

“Oh, no, I overspoke.” Aziraphale stepped back, stricken. Crowley missed the scent of him as quickly as he remembered its particulars. He realized what the scent was: clean, dried flowers—the odor of saints’ bodies mixed with the sun-scent angels were meant to carry. If Crowley were the domineering sort, he might have reached out, grasped Aziraphale by the arm, and pulled him close again. “They really do look wonderful,” Aziraphale said again. 

“Thanks.” Crowley shifted his weight away. Aziraphale floundered visibly, and Crowley might have liked to help him out but he didn’t know what to say either. “You, ahh, wanna get out of here?” 

“Mr. Crowley!” Aziraphale laughed, and then promptly stopped when he realized Crowley had meant it. “But you’re only halfway through the reading!” 

“Right.” Crowley sniffed. He took a step to go back to the table before rethinking it and saying: “Can I buy you dinner later?” 

Aziraphale fiddled with his ring, the wedding band. “Certainly. Although, and forgive me for asking, but why?” 

Crowley shrugged and shoved his hands in his pockets. Outright calling it a date was probably a bad idea. “I’d like us to get to know each other,” he said, and when Aziraphale kept looking uncertain, he added: “You knew my dad. Thought you might have stories.”

The softening of Aziraphale’s expression was instant. “Of course, my dear. I’d love that—although, I have to warn you: I don’t have many stories to tell.”

He and Crowley had hardly left the hotel room, so it made sense that Aziraphale would have a limited pool to draw from to share with a supposed son. “I’d more like to just talk to you,” Crowley said. Aziraphale’s smile got tighter, weirder. He knew exactly what Crowley was getting at, and he couldn’t believe it or didn’t want to. 

“You pick the place,” Aziraphale said, and he excused himself to go chat up the assistant.

* * *

Crowley was distracted for the rest of the readthrough, but that was okay because Adam and Warlock had been restless before the break and come back even more distracted. Crowley overheard Mrs. Young whisper to Ezzy, as Adam was packing up his things: “It’s Adam’s birthday tomorrow. He’s very excited.”

“Adam, why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday!” Ezzy smiled when the boys’ heads shot up in unison.

“It’s not his birthday tomorrow,” Warlock said. “It’s _my_ birthday.” 

“No, it’s both of yours birthdays,” the director explained, ignoring the potential for tantrum the declaration welcomed. 

“How nice!” Mrs. Young said. “Isn’t that nice, Adam? You could celebrate together.” 

“I don’t think so because my mother and father will be joining me and taking me to dinner. It’s a family event.” Warlock said very firmly. Crowley snorted. 

“Ah,” Mrs. Young flustered. “Are your parents not here now?” She looked around, like she might have missed another parent while sitting in. 

“What my mom means,” Adam stated, “Is that after your dinner, you and your parents can join us for cake. If you like.” 

Warlock nodded, but he didn’t look interested in joining. He didn’t want to share his day. Looking at Adam, Crowley could tell he wasn’t thrilled with the idea either. Adam caught him looking. “You’re invited too,” he said. The invitation was then extended to all the cast and crew, as long as they promised to be polite and bring something to share. 

“Will you tell Mr. Aziraphale?” Adam asked as they were all finally heading out. Aziraphale had dashed out with a copy of the script and his bag as soon as the readthrough ended. Crowley stared at the kid, uncertain what to say. “When you get dinner?” he prompted. 

Kid must have had superhearing or something. “Sure.” Crowley got a close-mouthed smile in return, and Adam and his mother parted from the group to walk home.

* * *

Tadfield was not an area Crowley was familiar with, but it only had a few actual restaurants, which narrowed the choice down some. He remembered so clearly how Aziraphale had responded to the full English breakfast, so he picked the pub, making sure it had an appropriately dim and quiet corner for them in advance. He also tempted the rest of the film’s crew to check out the Italian place 30 minutes out of town and sent Hannah along with them, just in case he needed the room.

Aziraphale met him in the lobby, dressed in a new shirt—Crowley could only tell because there was some lavender stitching on the cuffs and collar of this one. He already had his coat on. 

“Absolutely beautiful place, Tadfield!” he sighed. “Everyone is so kind.” Crowley held the door for him and stepped onto the sidewalk behind him. “The air is so clear, everything feels so—” Aziraphale murmured some happy noise, and then seemed to realize how he was waxing on. He sent Crowley and apologetic wince of a smile. “Well.” 

“I’ll drive us,” Crowley said, starting to lead toward the Bentley. 

“Is it very far?” Aziraphale hesitated. 

Crowley swerved back onto the path beside him. “No, we can walk.” Aziraphale still looked uncertain. “If you want.” 

“It might be faster to drive,” Aziraphale said, fiddling with his ring. 

“I’m in no rush,” Crowley said as light as he could. “Might be nice to stretch my legs.” 

Aziraphale smiled, and his relief made Crowley feel more easy than he had in a long time.

At the pub, Aziraphale got some sort of shepherd’s pie. Crowley picked at a fish and chips. Crowley had them bring over a bottle of chilled white, because of course they didn’t have champagne, and he hoped that would be enough to spark recognition. Crowley had even gone up to his room and tried to miracle himself closer to what he’d worn when they’d met (while not offending his own fashionable sensibilities). His jeans were ratty, dark, with a slight flare in the leg. His shirt, while not silk or particularly garish, had a thicker collar than was the style.

As he sat across from Aziraphale, making small talk as they ate and worked through the first bottle of wine, Crowley realized Aziraphale probably wouldn’t even notice the change in his clothes. Not only had he not changed his look in all those 40 years, Aziraphale was also being careful to not look at Crowley for longer than a second at a time. 

“I haven’t had a meal like this in a long time,” Aziraphale said, eyes only flickering to Crowley’s face before hitting upon the wine, his own plate, the other people in the restaurant. 

“So, were you friendly with Crowley III?” He asked it only to watch Airapahle squirm.

“In a way. I didn’t know him very well. Or rather I knew him only for a few days.” He cleared his throat. “He was very kind to me. He was one of the kindest people I’d ever met. He was,” Aziraphale swallowed, gaze alighting on Crowley’s face again and then flicking away, “Very handsome. But I’m sure you must know that; you look so much like him! And you’re very—well, obviously.” 

Crowley smiled. Couldn’t help it. “So, you fucked.” 

Aziraphale was horrified. “Ahh, we, um, but that’s not something for you to have to think about. I have other stories about him: people _loved_ him. We were in a discotheque—”

“I know people loved Crowley III. But there aren’t any verified accounts of him being with someone.” Crowley slid his foot under the table, just a little. His fingers curled around his wine, raising the glass but not drinking from it yet.

“Surely your mother,” Aziraphale said and then shook his head. “Of course, you couldn’t talk to her about that.” 

“I just want to know what you thought of him,” Crowley said. The waiter came over and cleared their plates, bringing another bottle of wine and uncorking it. Crowley couldn’t be sure which of them had prompted that. 

“I don’t think I understand what you’re asking. I must not.” Aziraphale twisted his rings. He frowned. He drank, and Crowley leaned in while he was distracted. 

“Was he a good lover?” Crowley was fairly certain of the answer, but Aziraphale might enjoy telling him anyway.

“Yes, very good,” Aziraphale allowed. 

“What was he like?” 

“Oh, I don’t know!” Aziraphale near-shouted. He finally kept his gaze on Crowley’s face as he asked: “How can I answer you that?” 

Crowley let his legs spread into Aziraphale’s space even more. “I’m sure this seems very improper to you,” he teased. “But I really want to know.”

Azirapahle kept quiet for a moment. “You never met your father,” he said, as if reminding himself. He very well could have told Crowley to fuck off, and he would have been right to do it. But instead he relaxed. “He was a good lover. Very considerate. Very thorough. Strong.” Aziraphale’s voice creaked a bit at the memory, so he took a drink of wine. 

“Oh?” Crowley hummed. “How could you tell?”

“He could,” Aziraphale looked around to make sure no one was listening. “He held me in place. And I’m hardly small, so it’s a task.” Aziraphale tried to get Crowley to laugh with him. Crowley leaned closer instead.

“You seem good-sized to me,” he said, carefully to keep his tone friendly but not too friendly, because he wanted to keep the game up enough to be _really_ good for Aziraphale this time around. “Where’d he touch you that you liked?” 

It was dark enough that Aziraphale seemed able to blush and fluster in peace, feeling like he had some privacy of expression. “Um,” he started. “My mouth,” he said. “My chest, my navel, er, lower. My tongue.” His eyes shut slowly. “He kissed my foot, my ankle, and—well, no one had done that before. Not like that.” 

“And what didn’t you like?” Crowley asked, pouring them both another glass for good measure. 

“I liked all of it,” Aziraphale said, affront breaking into his haze. “I told you, he was very good.” 

“Sure,” Crowley said, trying to not let any of that go to his head. It was hard, especially because he could tell that Aziraphale’s pulse was racing. “But there must have been something you didn’t like as much.” 

“Well…” Aziraphale thought it through. He seemed aware what his complaint was, his uncertainty more in if it was something he could share. “Sometimes,” he finally said, “His scent…”

All of the fun Crowley was having blew up in his face, which he figured he probably deserved for being so backhanded about the whole thing. Still, he felt so suddenly disgusting, very much a subterranean creature, made to crawl through rot and brimstone. If Aziraphale hadn’t liked his tits being pinched, he could fix that. He could only do so much about the scent. 

“Sometimes it was like I lost the scent of him entirely. It would become so sterile, so _clean_. Like the packaged soaps, in the room.”

“Maybe he didn’t smell better than that. What’s wrong with soap, right?” 

“Oh, but, you don’t understand. Sometimes he smelled so—warm. Like a wood fireplace. The top of his head, or sometimes, in the mornings, I could catch that scent on his chest or his—It’s only that I still remember the scent sometimes. It’ll just come to me, and I feel so…” He looked at Crowley. “It was a long time ago, and it’s a terribly stupid thing to be fussed about. You must think I’m very silly.” 

Crowley didn’t know what to say. He reached over the table and covered Aziraphale’s naked hand with his own. “Do you wanna come to my room with me?” 

“What?” Aziraphale snatched his hand back. “Because I had sex with your father?” 

“_No_,” Crowley groaned. “Because _I_ like you.” Crowley tried to make the words sound as honest as he meant them. It seemed he only ever sounded genuine when he was lying. 

Aziraphale believed him though. Maybe angels could sense that type of thing. Crowley wouldn’t know. When he’d been an angel, lying hadn’t been invented so there was no need for honesty.

“Crowley,” he said, softly and slowly. “I’m married.” He fidgeted with his wedding band again. 

“But aren’t you fighting or something?” The bottle of wine was gone, and Crowley didn’t think more drinking would help, especially when he was starting to want in such a hazy and mindless way. “Why else did you come? Why not just stay in America with your husband?” 

“I’m the leading Ezra Fell scholar in the world,” Aziraphale said, coldness taking him over. He stood and gathered his coat. “Thank you for dinner. I think I’ll go back to the hotel now.” 

Crowley pushed to his feet as well, throwing some bills down on the table, knowing they’d be enough. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think you were _married_ married.” He put his hands in his pockets. “My bad.” 

“Yes,” Aziraphale sighed. “But I could have been clearer when I agreed to come out with you.” He slipped his coat on, but he allowed Crowley to walk with him to the door and out of the pub. “I don’t know what I was thinking. A leave of rational thought, I suppose. You do remind me of your father. Extremely. It’s left me feeling unbalanced, I suppose.”

“Would you go to bed with me if I was him? Crowley III?” 

Aziraphale thought about it, his eyes lit a clear blue by the streetlamps. “No.” He didn’t sound sure. His mouth twitched, like he was maybe trying to smile. “Though, it would likely be a near thing.” He met Crowley’s eye, whether he knew it or not with the sunglasses. “It’s a near thing, Crowley. But I can’t.” 

Crowley nodded in a few jerky motions. “Right. Can I walk you back?” 

The hesitation was agony, especially because if he didn’t walk him home, Crowley would have to either go back into the bar and drink himself sick or walk ten steps behind him because they were going to the same place anyway. “Of course, dear boy.”

* * *

“_Dear boy_,” Crowley hissed, mocked, gripped the edge of the sink. He wasn’t looking at himself, keeping his gaze firmly to where he’d folded his sunglasses on the porcelain rim. With his other hand, he was clutching himself. His cock had been hard ever since Aziraphale had hidden away in his room. 

Aziraphale had given him a clasp on his shoulder right before parting and immediately shrank back, realizing he’d overstepped. Or maybe he’d felt the heat of Crowley’s body, the wiry muscle under his shirt, and been overwhelmed by the flare of familiarity that Crowley was currently abusing himself to. 

“So stupid.” Crowley’s forehead bumped against the mirror and he squeezed his eyes shut. He bit his lip and fucked his hand. “So bloody stupid.” 

When he finally came, he washed his hand and tucked himself away. Hannah was still out with the rest of the crew, so he called room service and had them bring him the whiskey sampler. He flicked on TV and found some reruns. He fell asleep drunk, which meant he’d wake up achy. But that was okay, because at least he was sleeping. 

Tomorrow. He’d tell Aziraphale everything tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, sorry for the wait! hopefully i'll get back on a good updating schedule


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a most blessed halloween to my boos, ghouls, and other little monsters
> 
> stay safe out there kiddos (and stay safe with this fic by checking out the updated tags)

(Wednesday)

During their absolutely dreadful walk from the pub back to the hotel, Crowley had mentioned the party. Aziraphale admittedly had been in a bit of a haze, but he did remember.

He also remembered that he’d almost gone back on it three different times and said _oh forgive me, dear, come upstairs and ravish me, would you?_ Gabriel would never know. Even if he found out, he would be more disturbed than jealous over any infidelity. He’d always treated Aziraphale’s human trysts like an overindulgence in sex toys: a little pathetic and ultimately unnecessary when one had their own perfectly capable archangel.

Not having a guest spending the night was for the best anyway. Crowley would have distracted Aziraphale from reading and annotating the script, which he was able to do twice, before getting in a nice, brisk walk around 7:00 am, over to the sit-down bakery he’d noticed the night before.

If he ended up with extra danishes, it was only because he wanted to try each kind. And it would have been wasteful to try and eat them alone, which brought him to Crowley’s room (the number of which Crowley had mumbled between the birthday invitation and numerous apologies).

The door was answered by Crowley’s severe personal assistant, which was strange because she was in her nightclothes. “Do you know what time it is?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale checked his watch. “A bit after 7:30.”

Aziraphale was then smacked with a bizarre sense of deja vu: Crowley popping into view behind his doorblock of a roommate and nearly falling over himself. Aziraphale had to laugh, forgetting that he hadn’t known Crowley for a very long time, and it was probably mean in this circumstance.

“It’s cool, Hannah. I’m up.” He was barely up, his hair mussed, his sunglasses thrown on haphazardly, his dark shirt and silk sleep pants wrinkled from the bed. Hannah stepped aside and let Aziraphale enter. The room smelled warm and muggy, because Crowley had been asleep just moments ago. Aziraphale felt very much comfortable walking in and setting the pastry bag on the small table.

“I hoped we might be friends. Put last night behind us,” Aziraphale said as mildly as possible so as to not embarrass Crowley in front of his assistant. “I brought breakfast to share. Rehearsal starts at 9:00 for you, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” Hannah answered for him, arms crossed but looking at the bag with intense interest. From what Aziraphale could surmise at this point, she brought a similar intensity to all of her pursuits.

“I’ll be gone before the clock ticks 8,” he promised.

Crowley yawned, not quite looking at him. “I’ll call down for coffee.”

After a distracted second, Hannah straightened up and turned away from the pastry bag. “I can do that.”

“Just enjoy yourself,” Crowley said, the receiver already to his ear.

Hannah and Aziraphale sat at the table, Aziraphale carefully taking the pastries out and placing them on the crumbled white bag. “The baker’s niece is visiting from culinary school, so they had an abundance of offerings. I thought we might split them. Let’s see.” He looked over them, and then pointed: “Cherry. Pecan and maple. That’s cheese. And this one is, heavens, I’ve forgotten—toffee and something. Flaked almond, I think. We’ll find out, I’m sure. Oh, but I forgot to grab a knife.”

Crowley asked for one to be sent up along with coffee and tea.

“I shouldn’t,” Hannah stated. “I’m on a diet. My husband and I are going to Phuket for Christmas, and I need to be presentable.” She said it like a joke, but it was clearly a priority.

“I understand.” Aziraphale smiled lightly as she and he sat very still, poised in anticipation of a treat. “My husband was always very unhappy with my form, or he said so at least. So, once, while he was away, I thought enough was enough, and I lost the weight. He’d just have to find something else to complain about. But when he came back and saw, he simply would not stop sulking! He couldn’t bear to look at me. He’d hardly even touch me.” Aziraphale laughed, watching Hannah closely to see if the story was actually funny. She looked uncertain, so he explained: “You see, he actually did prefer my body the way it was, and he was cross when I changed it.” Hannah smiled, but only to show she understood.

“I just want to watch my weight for myself,” she said. Her eyes darted to Crowley, who was still hovering by the telephone. Aziraphale looked at him too, but he was turned away and looking very intently at his mobile.

“Yes,” Aziraphale managed to say. “Of course.”

“I’m gonna go wash my face,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale wasn’t so stupid that he didn’t realize he’d upset him by bringing up Gabriel. Still, it was best if Crowley didn’t forget that Aziraphale was only able to be friends, because Aziraphale knew how much he would like to forget that himself.

“And how did you and your husband meet?” Hannah asked, her eyes following Crowley with a different sort of desperation as he disappeared into the ensuite.

“Military,” Aziraphale said, because it really was a good analogy. “I was of course discharged, but he’s a general. It’s why he’s gone so often.”

“Discharged?” Hannah repeated.

“Nothing too scandalous, I assure you.” Aziraphale tried to think of how he might shape his story, although he knew he should have been more focused on whether or not the story was worth telling at all. He’d never had an opportunity to share it, not with regular people, and the idea of speaking it was overwhelmingly attractive.

“I was on duty in a small village, and a man and woman were being chased out. They’d gotten some intelligence they weren’t meant to have, and my commander couldn’t have them remain. But the woman was pregnant, and it was chaos outside. So I gave them my weapon.”

“Weren’t you worried they’d use it against you?” Hannah asked. Crowley came out, his hair neater, and leaned against the door frame.

Aziraphale huffed a laugh, a little surprised by the question. “No!” He’d never even considered it. “No, they were my friends. Or, I suppose they were.”

“And you were discharged after that?”

“Oh, no, I served for quite some time after. It was only when I told Gabriel.”

Crowley made a choked sound. “Gabriel?” he said.

“Oh, sorry.” Aziraphale nearly kicked himself, his brow pinching. “Gabriel, my husband.”

“Like… Gabriel the archangel?” he squawked.

Hannah turned in her seat to look at him. “Crowley, are you all right?”

Crowley cleared his throat, and Aziraphale had to admit that it was getting fairly strange. Eventually he managed out, “Argh, yeah. Sorry. Just hate the name.”

“Forgive Anthony. He’s an actual demon in disguise.” Hannah said, facing Aziraphale again. Crowley made another sound and ducked back into the bathroom.

“Oh, no, I’m sure he’s—”

“So what happened after you told your husband?” Hannah leaned in, more interested in the story than Crowley’s theatrics.

Aziraphale’s gaze snapped back to her, and he had to remember how to tell the story.

He had told Gabriel shortly before the move to America. They’d been in bed, Gabriel’s ear pressed against his chest, allowing Aziraphale to hold him and play with his hair. Sometimes, after a particularly thorough swiving, and if Aziraphale had been agreeable and both of them were in good spirits, Gabriel would act somewhat tender and allow himself to lay with Aziraphale for a moment instead of bringing work to bed or simply dashing off to his next engagement. It was in those moments, when Gabriel was essentially and entirely different from his normal way, that Aziraphale was not only happy but felt he could be happy in the future.

Gabriel would talk, ask him things, and Aziraphale would ask things back and listen and, at times, feel appropriately moved for the heavenly cause. But Gabriel asked about the flaming sword in one of those moments, and Aziraphale had been making himself sick over it for millennia, and he had so terribly wanted a confidante. He had told him. He had thought: _in my bed, like this, when he wants to talk about love and mercy, I can tell him_.

”He realized what a terrible soldier I was. That I was never suited for it. Because of his rank, he was able to make my removal from duty rather painless. After all, doing something like that, you’re liable to be cast out—or, what I mean to say—I’m just lucky that Gabriel was able to intercede for me before someone else found out.”

While Aziraphale was still a principality in name, he was effectively removed from his post, not expected to file reports anymore, no longer given specific holy work to enact. When Aziraphale had gotten upset about it as Gabriel explained his changed position, he had been told that actually this was very good. It meant he’d have more time for Gabriel; he could serve Heaven by ensuring that Gabriel was taken care of. Maybe that was what the Almighty had intended him for, and he’d needed the thousands of years experience to be ready for that role: beloved and keeper of the Archangel. Aziraphale had never felt particularly honored by the occupation, but at least Gabriel never used the lost sword against him in their fights.

“You gave away your weapon?” Crowley repeated. He’d come back out without Aziraphale noticing.

Azirphale tried not to feel embarrassed while telling the story, but he did flush then. He hardly ever got out. Almost never breakfasted with anyone. Of course he’d pick something stupid like this to share, and he couldn’t even explain why he’d done it. He couldn’t bear to see how appalled Crowley was. “I suppose it isn’t a very flattering story,” he admitted. “But I’m much better suited out of commission.”

When room service came, Crowley got it, and placed the tray on the table before grabbing a cup of coffee for himself. He sat on his bed, close enough for conversation but an appropriate distance from Aziraphale.

Hannah bowled over the silence. “So you knew Anthony’s father?” Crowley choked on his coffee. Aziraphale too felt his face heat.

“Yes, I did,” he said. To hide his face, he focused on quartering the danishes perfectly.

“So, I imagine you’ve kept up with Anthony’s career then?”

“I don’t watch much television,” Aziraphale admitted. “And I only ever go to the cinema with Gabriel. But we saw him in the Mary Queen of Scots film.” In that, Crowley had been nearly unrecognizable, with a horrendous beard and unruly, thick, dark hair. With the dark glasses on top of all that, there hadn’t been any room for his face. At the time, Aziraphale had supposed their voices might be similar as well as their fingers, although he had a thick brogue for the role and kept his hands mostly out of frame. To Crowley, he said, “You did a wonderful job.”

Crowley sniffed delicately. “Not my best role.” He grabbed a piece of pastry, although he mostly just held it and nibbled the edge.

“Nonsense!” Azirapahle said, helping himself to the pecan maple once Hannah had made her own selection. “You were perfectly awful.”

“You know, there’s a conspiracy on the internet that all the Anthony J. Crowleys are the same person,” Crowley blurted out, gesturing with the cherried triangle. “Since we look the same and keep acquiring a certain amount of fame.”

Hannah laughed, covering her mouth. “You should see the comparison photos! They’re hysterical! They all have the same little zoom-in, circling the snake tattoo and the sunglasses in red or pointing arrows at it, as if that means anything. Or means anything besides how eccentric the rich can be.”

Something felt off, but Aziraphale couldn’t be sure what precisely. “I had no idea your ancestors were also famous.”

“Let’s see,” Hannah hummed, chewing as she thought. She swallowed. “Crowley II was in the mafia or something, wasn’t he? Notorious underworld type during the war, got gunned down after a deal went wrong.”

“Oh, my.” Aziraphale hadn’t been expecting anything so gruesome. “And his father?”

“Ahh,” Crowley waved it off. “Not sure.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. He toured with the Ballet Russes.”

“A ballerino!” Aziraphale considered how _Anthony Crowley Sr._ might have looked in his leotard and tights, how entirely unfair his appearance would be if it were anything like the man sitting across from him.

“A danseur noble,” Crowley corrected immediately and then popping the whole pastry into his mouth to keep from talking. Aziraphale felt his mouth water, and he thought about how the line of the dance belt might look under those tights, if the man in front of him were so undressed. Would Crowley, somehow endowed like his father before him, stretch it out? Aziraphale only barely kept himself from looking at his silk sleep pants, trying to catch a peek of a ghost of an outline, just to satisfy his curiosity

“Yes,” Hannah said. “Anton, I think, right?”

“Really, who can remember?” Crowley mumbled with his mouth full.

Aziraphale shook himself. He grabbed another pastry to try: toffee and, indeed, flake almond. He ate faster than he normally did, although no one could have said he truly rushed. But he kept his hot cheek turned from Crowley, refusing his gaze for the rest of the meal, trying to act as civil and friend-like as possible.

* * *

Ezra Volk went by Ezzy because that’s what her mother called her. She was named Ezra because that’s what her father had wanted, and he had died a few months before she was born. Her mother never remarried. She was a happy woman, but Ezzy knew she was lonely. She also knew there was nothing she could do about that, which broke her heart from a very early age. It was either this temperament of the heart or something genetic that drew her to _The Way Home_.

Ezzy had read everything that she could about _The Way Home_, Ezra Fell, and Paul Fischer’s production. Ezra Fell was almost impossible to research: I. Aziraphale had all of his diaries and any other writings that hadn’t been published, and he kept a tight hold on them. There weren’t even portraits or pictures of the man. The one thing anyone had been able to find was a sketch from the 1790s of “Mr. Ezra Fell, angel amung men” by some forgotten poet, which must have been another man because Ezra Fell the writer wouldn’t be born for another several years.

Aziraphale was the most prolific when it came to writings on Fell’s work and its themes, although he must have been writing since he was very young. Even then, Ezzy was starting to wonder if I. Aziraphale was actually a group of dedicated Ezra Fell scholars, because not only was Aziraphale much too young for having published as early as 1954 on the subject, but he also wasn’t quite the monster Paul Fischer had described in his interviews, commentaries, and unpublished memoir, _Call Me Paul: The Fischer’s Way Home_.

_Mr. Aziraphale considered himself a gentleman but is actually the most unrelenting swine of a man I’ve ever met,_ Fischer had written. _In all my years of expertise in this business, I’ve never met an animator more stubborn, an editor more stupidly particular, or an actress more of a diva. From stomping out of production to seducing members of the band away from their work to his passive aggressive needling over every minor issue, it was as if the talentless hack thought he’d written _The Way Home_ himself and didn’t have to work as a part of a team_.

In Ezzy’s limited time with the man, Aziraphale had been pleasant and helpful. He undoubtedly thought of himself as a gentleman and acted as such, and he was fussy and peculiar. He had also brought her notes on the printed script and was happy to wait as she looked over them and supervised while the primary cast went through some blocking exercises.

“Tadfield’s absolutely beautiful,” Aziraphale said. “Exactly what I would have envisioned—I mean, when I think of Ezra Fell’s work. What made you choose it, if I can ask?”

“Oh, Adam lives here,” Ezzy said, having put the script down for a moment to watch as the movement coach tried to explain why Crowley needn’t sway his hips _like that_. “When he auditioned, he told us whether or not he got the part, we ought to come here because it was perfect for filming. We all thought it was funny, but I came down to scout it out anyway. He was right. Besides, it’s best to keep children close to home during projects like this, when you can.”

“And the other boy? The one playing Sidney?”

She nodded. “Warlock.” She’d been informed by his chaperone that his parents would not be able to make it for his birthday and that he’d be told after the morning's rehearsal. Ezzy would have felt like she was complicit in a lie, except she pointedly did not feel or think about it. “His father’s a diplomat or something, and his mother keeps busy. He’s been in a few things here and there: commercials, and some kid’s programming. He’s good, a bit of a brat to work with I’ve been told, but I worked with Miles Teller once, so I’m not too worried.”

Aziraphale smiled politely, and Ezzy got the impression that he had no idea who she was talking about.

“I’m working with the first draft of my father’s screenplay,” she said, unsure why she was telling him. “Fischer had him change it a lot for his film.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale looked down at the script, as though it had somehow changed. “I hadn’t realized.”

“I grew up watching Ficsher’s movie, so I didn’t read _The Way Home_ until college,” Ezzy said, Aziraphale couldn’t hide a wince, which nearly made her laugh. Maybe Fischer was right and he was a swine, but he was the type of swine she’d always liked: an honest one, and one that was easy to read. “I think the idea that children can’t handle the whole story frustrated me, and so I looked through all my dad’s old stuff to see what he had. Then I directed a Marvel movie _and_ an 80s remake. So, I’m due a passion project.”

“And with your father’s script, you must be very passionate.” Aziraphale nodded. Not for the first time, Ezzy felt very secure with the man. Not necessarily safe, but like he wasn’t about to turn on her or change his ways.

“I’d like you to stay on for the whole of production,” she said. It wasn’t like she hadn’t already thought of it. She just hadn’t spoken the words out loud quite yet. “I’d like to have you around not just for the script but for other decisions because I think you understand this story, and I value that.”

“My dear.” He seemed surprised, which was understandable. This made him speak slowly and fidget with his pinkie ring. “I’m not sure what I could offer outside of the reading and my notes. But of course. I would be honored to stay on and help.”

“Perfect.” She was happy to settle it before he changed his mind. She gestured Mara, her assistant, over and asked them to update the paperwork and the inn for Aziraphale’s continued stay.

“Really, I’m not sure how helpful I can be,” he twittered, more and more uncertain as it became finalized.

So, Ezra told him her dream, plain and simple: “I want to make the best _Way Home_ movie imaginable, and I want every person in the world to read the book.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said. “How reasonable.” But he smiled and he stopped wringing his hands, so Ezzy got back to going over the script.

* * *

Crowley had approached immediately after being released from rehearsal, sauntering over to him at a pace which nearly negated the cool sway. Aziraphale had been seated with little thought of getting up, so he found himself deeply charmed by the apparent rush. “Can I give you a ride to the party?”

Aziraphale pretended to think it over. “I had hoped to run by the cafe bakery for something to bring.”

“Yes, yeah, of course.” Crowley nodded. “Do you need to run by the hotel first, or just straight there?”

There was a smash and a cry of frustration. Aziraphale whipped around to see that Warlock had thrown his cellular telephone onto the ground. He swore at his guardian, saying a word Aziraphale was certain he shouldn’t know, and stomped away to the men’s toilet.

“His parents aren’t coming,” Ms. Volk said lowly. Aziraphale watched Warlock’s guardian flounder, seemingly unable to cross the threshold into the bathroom.

“Oh, dear.” Aziraphale stood and then hesitated. He didn’t know Warlock at all, and while he liked children and rationally knew they weren't so different from adults, he did not quite know how to speak to them. In his moment’s hesitation, Crowley stepped past him. “Maybe we ought to leave him,” Aziraphale voiced.

“It’s hard to come back by yourself when you’ve stormed out,” Crowley said. “It’ll just be a second.”

Aziraphale, ever the snoop, listened covertly at the door, stretching his ears to hear Warlock lamenting how it wasn’t fair and they should have just said so and they could have simply told him.

“That was thoughtless of them,” he heard Corwley say.

“They’re both idiots.”

There was a silence before Crowley spoke. “It might not be as good, but do you want to go to Adam’s party with me?”

After another second, Warlock asked: “Will you Instagram it with me?”

“Of course,” Crowley said, very seriously. Aziraphale didn’t know what that was, so he wasn’t sure what level of sacrifice was being given. “Me and Mr. Aziraphale were going to the bakery first. Go ask if it’s okay if you come with us.” As they reemerged, Crowley caught Aziraphale spying but he didn’t seem bothered. He made a small gesture for Warlock to go over and speak with his guardian.

“You don’t mind?” Crowley checked, watching the boy delicately pick up his phone from the ground and tap at the screen.

“Of course not!” Aziraphale minded a little, but he wasn’t going to fight a child over that.

“I do want to talk to you,” Crowley told him as Warlock continued to talk with the flustered woman. “In private.” Aziraphale felt the back of his neck go warm and his head go a little fuzzy, because he absolutely wouldn’t deny Crowley two days in a row if he persisted. Crowley read his heating as apprehension, and he reassured him it was nothing untoward. “I promise, I’m not trying to pull anything.”

“All right.”

Warlock tramped back over, not quite throwing a fit but certainly dour. “Never mind about Instagram,” he said. “I broke my phone, and Janae says I can’t get a new one until tomorrow.”

“Let me see it.” Crowley extended his hand and Warlock slapped down the dead mobile, not thinking about his roughness. Crowley took off the case, opened the back, and blew on the insides. Slipping the panel back on, he gave the phone a few shakes and pressed the button on the side. As it was lighting up, he rubbed the cracked screen against his pant leg. While not completely unshattered, it seemed more useable as he handed it back.

Warlock was in complete awe as he turned the device over in his hands, his voice wobbly. “How did you do that?”

“Just a trick I learned,” Crowley said, catching Aziraphale’s eye and winking.

“You must know a lot about mobile devices!” Aziraphale didn’t know anything himself. Generally, technology just worked around him, even if he didn’t understand it..

Crowley sighed, his brow wrinkling, and he looked back at Warlock. “It will break if you throw it again, and I won’t be able to fix it because it won’t be your birthday anymore.”

Warlock nodded, although he didn’t look altogether pleased with this deal. “I’m not supposed to throw them anyway.”

“Yeah. It’s hard when you’re angry,” Crowley said, and they started walking to grab Warlock’s things. “But it usually just makes things worse. Is your nanny coming along?”

“She said it’s fine if I just go with you.”

“Hm.” Crowley looked like he had more to say about that, but most likely not to Warlock.

“We’re going by the bakery to grab something to bring. I’m sure there’s a department store somewhere around here, if you’d like to pick up a gift,” Aziraphale offered.

Before Warlock could express how he felt about that, Crowley waved it off. “Ahh, it’s both of your birthdays. Cancels out. Unless you want to get him something.” Warlock shook his head. Aziraphale was not for the first time amazed by Crowley’s ability, his ease. He had, it seemed, everything Aziraphale wanted desperately. “Okay. You got everything?”

Warlock walked a bit ahead of them to the car, and Aziraphale said a low: “You’re wonderful with children. Do you have a little Crowley V back home?”

Crowley snorted, and it was difficult to say if he was amused or offended. “Really, angel.”

“Angel?” Aziraphale nearly stopped in his tracks.

“It fits you, doesn’t it?” Crowley asked, pausing just outside the car door, back to watching Azirapahle in that queer, earnest way.

“Ha ha,” he forced. “You silly.” They both got in the car, and Crowley peeled out.

* * *

“You cannot be serious about bringing petit fours,” Crowley said as Aziraphale picked up the dainty, pink box.

“Why not?” Aziraphale was aghast.

“Because you can’t bring cake to a birthday party unless you’re asked.”

“They’re not cakes; they’re petit fours.”

Warlock peeked up at the box, looking at the neatly organized, decorated assortment. “What are those?”

“They’re—” Aziraphale hesitated. He looked at Crowley to see if the boy was making fun of him. “Petit fours.”

This was apparently not what he’d been asking, and Crowley sighed. “He means they’re little cakes.”

“I want to bring them,” Warlock said.

Crowley looked agonized, but Aziraphale puffed up. “Of course! Why, you should have your own birthday treats to share as well!”

“We’ll need two boxes at least.” Crowley grabbed another before roughly setting it down on the counter to be rung up. “You can’t believe each child will only politely take one.”

“Certainly not, dear,” Aziraphale snapped, “As I won’t be either.” That got Crowley to laugh at least, and he flashed his card to the baker’s niece before Aziraphale could even think of reaching for his money.

* * *

It was only a little after 3:00 when they arrived at the Youngs’, and, after taking a few pictures with Crowley in different poses from different angles, he was quickly subsumed by Adam’s little crew and taken out to play in the woods.

“You should get used to the woods, anyway,” Adam told him flat out. “For when we’re filming.”

Mr. Young was not at all pleased to have the film’s cast and crew crammed into his home. He put his foot down shortly after Crowley and Aziraphale had gotten there.

“We sing happy birthday, cut the cake, and then they’re all out!” he said vehemently to Mrs. Young, who said _yes, yes_ and then reminded him that it was Adam’s birthday and this was what he wanted. “Yes, well, Adam is ten—eleven, yes, fine—and he’s not even here. I’m not in my entertaining shirt!” he near cried.

Crowley shot Aziraphale a look, and Aziraphale would have shared in his amusement except he too was particular about his clothes. He smiled at Crowley not in agreement but rather because he wanted to. Crowley couldn’t tell the difference.

“What was it you wanted to tell me, dear boy?” Aziraphale asked, once they were settled side by side on the couch, Aziraphale with a few goodies on a plate, Crowley acting as dutiful side table and holding their glasses of white. “I have to admit.” Aziraphale leaned in so the movement coach sharing the sofa with them wouldn’t overhear. “I’m all aflutter with anticipation.” This was an unfair thing to say, except Aziraphale was more and more hoping Crowley might re-broach the topic of their mutual aflutterment.

“Later,” Crowley said, uneasy. “When we can talk in private.”

“Yes, of course.” Aziraphale rest the plate on his lap, taking a glass from him, and having a long drink.

* * *

The party spilled outside into the Youngs’ tidy, little garden. Happy birthday had been sung, the cake sliced, and Mr. Young had been coaxed by the children to put the grill on and cook up the hamburgers and brats he’d been saving for another night. The crew took turns running out to fetch drinks and snacks from the nearby grocery. Even some neighbors popped by, necessitating a renegotiation of the post-cake curfew.

Most interestingly, Adam and Warlock had apparently entered into a co-ownership of a dog.

“He found Adam and I!” Warlock told Crowley. “We named him Dog, and he’ll stay with Adam and I’ll send money for his upkeep each week, and I’ll come down every weekend to play with him!”

“That seems like a good deal.” Crowley smiled. “Adam is all right with it too?”

“He has to be! Dog is _our_ dog; he came to _both_ of us.” Dog was currently growling at Aziraphale, who was repeating a more and more frustrated _No_, primly holding his wine to his chest, like the dog might be trying to steal it.

“They said you can stay!” Adam ran over, breathless.

“Janae will agree to it too. Has she shown up yet?” Warlock asked, whipping his head about. “I’ll just text her.”

“Planning a slumber party?” Aziraphale asked. Dog finally got bored of harassing him and went to trot around Adam’s heels.

“Slumber parties are for girls!” Warlock sniped.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with being a girl, but this is much more serious than that,” Adam explained. “We want to make sure Dog acclimates to his new home, and we don’t want him preferring one of us to the other.”

“Yes, I see,” Aziraphale nodded, taking on the same gave tone.

“Janae says its fine! She’ll drop my things off.”

Crowley reached down to scratch Dog behind the ear, which Aziraphale saw the beast allowed. It wasn’t worth getting jealous over, but that rarely stopped anyone. “Shall we head on, then?” Crowley asked him, startling Aziraphale out of the little glare he was having with the dog.

“Let’s. Happy birthday, Adam. Happy birthday, Warlock.” He even offered a pleasantry to Dog, which was rudely ignored.

“Evil little thing,” he said once they were in the car. “Wicked, awful creature.”

“Who, Warlock?” Crowley asked, starting the car up and driving far more dangerously than when he’d been playing chauffeur for the boy.

“No, Dog, that beastly creature.”

“You’re not used to animals not liking you.” Crowley clearly thought that was funny, but Aziraphale’s feelings had been hurt.

“Blasted dog,” he murmured.

“Whoa, angel, your _mouth_.”

It got a laugh out of Aziraphale, which was a blessing. “You’ll come up to my room?”

Crowley swallowed. “Yeah, sure,” he said, his attempt at sounding casual making his voice extra strained.

By the time they were hopping up the stairs to Aziraphale’s floor, Aziraphale was feeling a familiar excitement settle at the base of his spine. He liked _this_ Crowley just like he’d liked the last one, and there wasn’t anything too strange about going to bed with someone you liked.

He unlocked the door, laughing at something Crowley said, or maybe the way he had said it, and then choked. “Gabriel!”

“Aziraphale.”

“Oh… bugger,” Crowley said, which summed it all up well enough.

* * *

Gabriel had a way of smiling that expressed how very unhappy he was. This was an attractive characteristic only as far as it helped Aziraphale keep track of his emotions.

He smiled like that as he caught a glimpse of Crowley. He practically herded them through the door, shutting it behind them, and getting firmly between them. As he walked back to where he’d been stationed, he took Aziraphale by the elbow and pulled him along.

“Gabriel.” Aziraphale could feel a ramble bubbling up. “This is my friend, ah, my coworker, that is, Anthony J. Crowley. Crowley, I’ve told you about Gabriel, my husband. Crowley is an actor; he’s in the film for my—for _The Way Home_, that little Ezra Fell story. You see, I met his father some years ago. We were coming back to mine for a drink and a chat. And, uh, you—what are you doing here?”

“I have business in the area. I was just alerted.” Gabriel kept his gaze firmly on Crowley, who was twitching, practically shaking, looking ready to dash out the door, the poor dear.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Crowley garbled out. “I’ll just go.”

“No, stay, Crawly.” Gabriel said, that smile back. Crowley looked like he’d been struck.

“_Crowley_!” Aziraphale whispered, the correction harsh. To Crowley, he said a much more gracious: “We can of course call it a night, can’t we?”

“Of course not.” Gabriel went about taking off his suit jacket, getting comfortable. “You wanted a drink and a chat. I can do that and more. Let’s have fun.”

Aziraphale leveled a look at him. “Really?”

“Really, sunshine.” Gabriel reached up to touch his face, to brush a curl from his forehead.

“I, ahhh, don’t mean to impose.” Crowley was still pale, clearly upset. “You said you had business…”

“Not you.” Gabriel smiled, friendlier this time. “And nothing to worry about tonight. So, what are we drinking?”

“I’m not thirsty, so—”

“Aziraphale.” Gabriel took out his wallet and then his credit card, which was pointless because Azirapahle had one of his own. He took it anyway. “Why don’t you go order something for us downstairs? I’ll talk to Crawly—sorry, _Crowley_— and ease his mind.”

“If you are unkind to him,” Aziraphale began.

Gabriel put his hand up. _Be not afraid_, his posture read. He looked sincere about it. “We’ll be fine. Won’t we, Crowley?”

“Hrg.”

“Great, it’s settled!” Gabriel gave Aziraphale a nudge toward the door.

At the modest bar downstairs, Aziraphale got a bottle of wine and three glasses, nearly leaving Gabriel’s card behind in his rush to get back to the room. When he did get back, Gabriel was sitting on the bed, Crowley in the chair, and they were at least being civil.

* * *

“So, you’ve been keeping Aziraphale company for me?” Gabriel asked once he was on his second glass. Gabriel almost never drank, even after Aziraphale had gotten him to soften his gross matter ban. He wasn’t very good at drinking, or he was very good at it, depending on your perspective.

“Crowley’s been sweet to me,” Aziraphale said for him. He was sitting on the bed, and Gabriel’s hand was cupped on his knee, sometimes climbing a little higher but hardly anything inappropriate. “He’s an absolute dove.”

Gabriel laughed, loud and harsh, giving his leg a squeeze. “Is he!”

Crowley shifted in his seat. “Aziraphale’s overselling it. He’s the—well, if anyone’s a bird.”

“Oh!” Aziraphale trilled. After all, he loved attention, and he’d been drinking since 3:00. “And what type of bird should I be?”

“A chicken, probably,” Gabriel said, the words low and hot against his ear. “All breasts and thighs.”

“Honestly, Gabriel, we have a guest!”

“Oh, come on, I know what you brought him back for!” Gabriel scoffed, waving off the concern with sweeping gesture of his wine glass. By a miracle, the wine didn’t slosh out.

Crowley himself was on his third glass, killing the bottle to get it. “I really should be going.” He didn’t make a move to get up.

“I suppose you could also be a swallow,” Gabriel teased. His big, hot hand curled up, around, groping his thigh.

It was a little embarrassing, made Aziraphale blush, but it was also sort of nice. He was starting to realize that they really could have fun that night, the three of them. “But what kind?” he asked. “Red-breasted, wire-tailed, European barn—”

“Clearly a welcome swallow!” Gabriel pinched at the chub of his thigh lightly, making Aziraphale laugh.

“What do you think, Crowley?”

“I don’t know,” he huffed, unable to look at them. “A pigeon.”

Aziraphale’s heart stuttered. “What?”

Crowley stood right up. “I’ll go get us another bottle.” Gabriel tossed him the room key, although Aziraphale didn’t really notice, still thrown by the response.

Gabriel stood to put his glass aside. Aziraphale stood too, wanting to check his face before Crowley came back, but Gabriel caught him before he got far away, pressing Aziraphale’s back to the hard line of his front. Gabriel’s arm curled over his chest, his elbow at his throat, his hand grasping his shoulder.

“He’s just a human to you?” Gabriel hummed against the shell of his ear. His other hand had begun to unfasten Aziraphale’s trousers, and Aziraphale’s knees felt weak before Gabriel even worked a hand inside, so he leaned more fully against him.

“Of course,” Aziraphale cooed. “What else would he be?” Gabriel felt him over his underthings, groaning at the first hint of soft mound.

“You haven’t changed your effort for him.” Gabriel’s fingers inelegantly started to press in, roughly grabbing the fat there and pushing a finger against his slit.

“Should I?” Aziraphale spread his legs a little more.

Instead of answering, Gabriel pulled up and slipped under his drawers. At the bare touch, Aziraphale tipped his head back against Gabriel’s shoulder, feeling Gabriel’s breath against his neck. “You’re already _wet_,” Gabriel nearly growled. His middle finger had dipped down Aziraphale’s crease, padding over his hole and collecting slick to then smear back up against his stiff, swollen clit.

“You’re touching it,” Aziraphale reminded him. “That’s how it’s supposed to happen.”

Gabriel laughed, his thumb pressing rough against his sensitive, little nub, his index and middle fingers finally taking the plunge and working inside him. Aziraphale knew it shouldn’t have felt so good, the harsh treatment where he was so tender, but the position or maybe his body’s faulty wiring made him tremble so while Gabriel awkwardly jammed his thick fingers against his soft walls. The thumb scratching rudely at his clit only made his hips jolt and his breath stutter.

“Darling, he’ll be back up soon.”

“We’ll hear him, won’t we? If you keep quiet.” At that, Gabriel twisted his hand a little, making Aziraphale yelp a small noise. To get even deeper, Gabriel abandoned his clit, letting the heel of his thumb press against it and burying his two fingers deep in Aziraphale’s cunt.

Aziraphale ground back on his cock. “Will you fuck him?” he asked before thinking it through. The sound Gabriel made was strained, and he rut his cock harder against the plush spread of his arse. “Will you watch him fuck me? Will you—” Gabriel was really digging in then, making him squirm. “Will you kiss me while I take him in my mouth?”

“Suck on this,” Gabriel gruffed, nudging his thumb between Aziraphale’s lips. Aziraphale took it inside greedily, like he had Gabriel’s other fingers, moaning at being filled. “He can put it in your ass while I take you from the front,” Gabriel told him evenly once he was pacified. Aziraphale nearly wailed, rubbing his hips forward, bearing down, shaking apart.

Gabriel unhanded him after Aziraphale wriggled enough that he had no other choice. Aziraphale stepped into the ensuite, fixed his pants, and checked his reflection. He was blotchy red from his cheeks to his neck, so he wet his hands with cool water and slapped them against his throat.

He heard Crowley come back in and turned off the faucet. When he came out, Gabriel had an arm around Crowley’s shoulder, the shining fingers of his left hand pressed against his fashionable jacket collar.

“Gah!” Aziraphale choked, nearly jumping back into the bathroom.

“He’s just embarrassed because I fingered him while you were out.” Gabriel said. Crowley nearly dropped the bottle of wine. Gabriel took it from him, let him duck out from under his arm, and set the bottle down. He wiggled his fingers in front of Crowley’s face. “Want a smell?”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley squeaked, seeking him out.

“I don’t think this will work, Gabriel. He’s uncomfortable.” Refocusing on Crowley, Aziraphale restated: “You’re uncomfortable. I’m so sorry, my dear.”

Gabriel narrowed his eyes, his fingers still just under Crowley’s nose. Crowley glanced between the two of them one last time and, without another word, latched his mouth around those fingers and sucked.

“Oh my—” Aziraphale couldn’t say much more because Gabriel got Crowley by the scruff of his neck and pulled him up for a brutal kiss. Aziraphale hadn’t swooned in many years, the whole business having become so unfashionable, but he felt one might be coming on as he watched Crowley lick into Gabriel’s mouth. “Hah.”

Crowley pulled away to look at Aziraphale, and he still had those awful sunglasses on. Aziraphale reached to pluck them off, and Crowley flinched back. “They’ve done something to his eyes for the film,” he explained, looking to Gabriel. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Of course not,” Gabriel said, smiling wide and showing his teeth. “I’d love to see!”

“Crowley, dear, there’s nothing to worry about,” Aziraphale promised. So, Crowley took his glasses off and winced as Gabriel laughed. Aziraphale nearly kicked him out of the room, because he was _trying_ to get everyone comfortable, not humiliate Crowley.

“Wow, snake eyes!” Gabriel reached up to grab Crowley’s face to keep him from turning away.

“They’re beautiful,” Aziraphale said, breaking Gabriel’s grip and taking Crowley by the hand to lead him to the bed. “I love them, and I think they’re absolutely marvelous. I had no idea people could do anything like that.”

Crowley sat back, mumbling something like “Trade secret,” and allowed Aziraphale to undress him. First, it was his jacket and then his silly, little tie. Aziraphale knelt down to unlace his boots, and Crowley, otherwise unoccupied, grabbed Gabriel by his neat, button-down shirt, and yanked him over. He started tugging at his belt and zip, and Aziraphale figured he might as well get Gabriel’s shoes while he was down there.

“You’re eager,” Gabriel said, cupping Crowley’s jaw. The sight of his huge hands brushing up against Crowley’s thin, delicate throat sent a surge of something low and hot to Aziraphale’s stomach.

“I just want to see what I’m working with.” Crowley smiled back, looking deceptively friendly, working the suit pants down. Gabriel had never taken to wearing underthings, which Aziraphale had long gotten used to but Crowley seemed to need a moment with. Still, he got a hand around Gabriel’s cock, weighing it, testing its girth, seeming to measure it carefully. Aziraphale had to admit that Gabriel’s prick was a sight and warranted some study: thick, heavy, nestled in dark curls, and hooded with a sweet bit of skin. The musky smell of him was worth note, as well as the way he tasted. Aziraphale more and more wanted to see Crowley take it into his mouth, even if he couldn’t get it very far.

Gabriel kicked his pants the rest of the way off and let Aziraphale fold them, standing and placing them by his suit jacket. Gabriel undid his cuffs and started at his buttons while Crowley shimmied out of his tight jeans.

Aziraphale couldn’t help his interest at the uncovering mystery of how Crowley shaped up beside Gabriel—and he _could_ tell that’s what they were doing. Unlike his father before him, Crowley dressed more or less like a professional and gave no real indication as to his size. So, when his prick came into view, haloed by its red curls, cut, with the most delicious looking pink head, Aziraphale was nearly moved to bless the entire township in his delight.

It was the same size as Gabriel’s, maybe a centimeter bigger, although it was hard to say at such a mass. The size didn’t really matter, because Gabriel’s effort could change if he wanted (although they had agreed many years back this to be the optimum size, excluding holidays and special occasions). That Crowley was so humanly endowed did warm something in Aziraphale’s chest. _How perfect you are_, __he wanted to sing. _All of Heaven’s blessings upon you_.

(He wanted, with an almost painful stab, for Gabriel to take it in his mouth, although he doubted this would happen.)

“Right.” Gabriel didn’t look happy about it, and Aziraphale was in such a mood he almost reminded him about the sins of vanity and covetousness just to see him fluster. Instead, Aziraphale worked the shirt off his broad shoulders and put it with the rest of his clothes. Crowley tore his own shirt off and flung it in a pile. 

“We all see each other now.” Aziraphale took off his own jacket. “So let’s do be friends.” 

“I haven’t seen you yet,” Crowley said, positively the sharpest, kindest companion Aziraphale had ever known. Gabriel hardly ever picked up the lines he put down, and here Crowley was not skipping a beat. 

“I suppose you’re right,” Aziraphale allowed. Gabriel sat beside Crowley on the bed, and Aziraphale came to stand before them. Undressing hadn’t seemed such a task when their attention had been elsewhere. He tried not to be nervous, but that was difficult as he was all soft curves and empty spaces. He found the first button of his vest and started slowly. Gabriel brushed his fingers away and made quick, practiced work of it instead, which was fine with Aziraphale. As Gabriel transitioned to his shirt buttons, Crowley took to his shoes and then trousers. Aziraphale wasn’t sure where to look, so he kept his gaze on their pricks and tried to determine which he’d have first. Then Crowley worked his drawers down, and Aziraphale placed his palm over mound, anxiety spiking through him. 

He finally met Crowley’s eye when Crowley took his wrist lightly and just held it, waiting for Aziraphale to move himself. “It’s…” He didn’t know what to say. 

“What, are you shy all of a sudden?” Gabriel laughed. Aziraphale moved his hand aside. 

“It’s all right,” Crowley said, looking from his quim to his face. Any confusion he felt didn’t show. He let his wrist go, so Aziraphale could cover himself again if he wanted. 

Gabriel pinched his nipple to get his attention, and Aziraphale finally leaned in for a kiss. Crowley’s hand was on his naked hip, fingers tapping aimlessly, waiting for his turn. So, when Gabriel released his mouth to instead kiss his chest, Aziraphale switched over, got a hand in Crowley’s soft, bright hair, and kissed him.

If kissing Gabriel was having one’s mouth overtaken by a much stronger adversary, kissing Crowley was like a very friendly parley, or an easy matching of wits over a card game on a Sunday afternoon. Or maybe it was how a pup felt smelling its mother for the first time: blind and safe. Or, oh, maybe it just how a tongue felt when held and stroked by its fellow, and how warm it was to play in someone else’s mouth; that is, to play as those who enjoyed the game but also took it seriously. It was good, at least. Aziraphale could say it was good. 

So good, he pulled out of Gabriel’s grasp to cup Crowley’s throat, to brush his thumb against his jaw, to share breath. Crowley hummed and started moving up the bed, getting a handful of hips and thighs. At Crowley’s insistence, Aziraphale settled his weight atop him, chest to chest, belly to belly, their legs tangled so Crowley could rub his cock against the crease of Aziraphale’s crotch. 

Gabriel had taken the moment to miracle some lube and to sidle up on the bed behind them. He hauled Aziraphale’s hips up, spreading his cheeks and touching his hole, not hesitating to slide a finger into his arse. Aziraphale finally broke the kiss to look over his shoulder, panting and a little shocked. The look of complete innocence on Gabriel’s face was almost infuriating. “It’s what we talked about, isn’t it?”

“Huh?” Crowley murmured. Aziraphale felt the question more than heard it, and he looked down at him. Crowley looked nicely hazy, his mouth wet and red, and the whites of his eyes almost entirely eaten up by yellow. Aziraphale kissed him again, once, because it felt so awfully nice. 

A second finger was added, a bit too quickly, and Aziraphale shot another look back. He took the hint and miracled himself slick and loose so Gabriel would stop his ridiculous prodding. But, he did receive a kiss on his cheek for expediting the process, and he always liked those. 

“You’ll take the back, Crowley,” Gabriel said, urging Aziraphale to turn around and away from Crowley’s mouth. 

“Uhh,” Crowley pushed himself up on his elbows, scooting even more up the bed. 

“Don’t you think he should get to choose?” Azirapahle asked lightly. He knew Crowley would choose to continue kissing, which was Aziraphale’s choice as well. “He’s a guest, after all.” 

“Aren’t you supposed to be hospitable to your husband first?” Gabriel asked, situating himself up on his knees, his slick hand covering his cock. 

“Are you?” Aziraphale asked archly. “That’s a thought.” 

Gabriel sighed. “Crowley, what do you want to do?” 

“I’ll take the back, no sweat,” Crowley said. And to Aziraphale, he teased: “He doesn’t seem to know his way around it, huh?” 

“Oh, he’s fine,” Aziraphale larked while Gabriel glowered. For good measure, Aziraphale kissed him to show there were no hard feelings. Behind them, Crowley was clamoring to his knees, lining his dick up with one hand, and feeling the spread of Aziraphale’s hole with the other. He groaned at what he felt, his front pressing against Aziraphale’s back, his mouth wet at his shoulder. Gabriel shuffled up against him as well, supporting Aziraphale while he spread his legs to allow entry. 

Gabriel, of course, pushed his prick in first, wrapping Aziraphale up in his arms, unbalancing him enough that he had to rest all his weight against him and sink down around his cock. Crowley kept playing with his bottom, which was fine, because Gabriel pumped his hips a few times, his cock filling him as it always did. Crowley’s tugging at his other hole made him arch into the touch, angling Gabriel’s cock wonderfully against his insides. 

When Crowley finally started to ease himself in, Aziraphale had to remind himself to breathe, and his gasping shuttered through him all at once, hiccuping and eliciting a shushing from both ends. Gabriel was petting his upper back, Crowley stroking his sides, which would have tickled unbearably except he’d never ever been filled like this before. 

It would have been impossible to say if they were working together or against each other with what happened next. When they alternated moving, Aziraphale could barely keep a thought in his mind, feeling completely gutted. When they moved together, it was even worse, and by that he of course meant it was much better, only he could not think at all. Crowley curled a hand between them, got a finger on his clit, and stroked it. Gabriel stopped kissing Aziraphale’s mouth and cheek and jaw, instead reaching around him and kissing Crowley. Someone whined at that, and it was probably Aziraphale, but he couldn’t be sure because he could barely keep his eyes open. 

“Oh, there,” he said. Pressed between their bodies, he was so entirely held and positioned and fucked that if they would just keep at it, he might slip over the edge without them even noticing. The hand he had on Gabriel’s hip was covered by Crowley’s, Crowley squeezing his fingers only for a second before Aziraphale was tearing his perfect, freckled hand up and gagging himself with it. His fingers were so long, he was sure they could tickle the back of his throat, even at the strange angle. He got two in his mouth, making Crowley murfle behind him in surprise and fuck his hips up even harder. 

“There you are,” Gabriel said, letting Crowley take most of Aziraphale’s weight and leaning so he could put his back into his thrusts, making him whine with each solid hit in. “Can you believe how much he loves this?” 

Crowley was still rubbing his clit, rolling it tenderly, saying something in his ear which was comforting but likely nonsense because Aziraphale couldn’t follow a stitch of it. Still Aziraphale was bearing down, twitching, practically milking them with how badly he wanted them all to come. A third finger was creeping into his mouth, and Aziraphale knew he was drooling a little, sighing and crying as Gabriel finished. 

He collapsed on his back and allowed Aziraphale to be braced upon his chest. Crowley stopped messing with his clit and mouth, instead grabbing hold of his hips and starting to dick him harder and faster. Aziraphale worked his own hand under himself, moving past his clit and pressing against his singing, hot pussyhole, dipping in to catch some come and then bringing some of it to his mouth. Gabriel laughed kindly watching him, running a hand through his white curls. 

“Aren’t I a good husband?” he asked, while Aziraphale nodded and panted against his chest, Crowley rabbit-thrusting behind him so hard he could feel his ears ringing. “How lucky you are, having two attentive lovers.” 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale moaned, reaching down again to play with his queint and spread slick around his sore clitoris. He pressed his ear to Gabriel’s chest, blearily looking over his shoulder at Crowley. Aziraphale would have said it again, except his voice got caught up in his throat. Crowley nodded and leaned in to kiss him, so it was all right. 

And when Crowley came, he leaned in lave attention against his burning holes, sucking away the mess and making Aziraphale shout and come as he fit his mouth around his clit. He ate him through the aftershocks, kissed his cunthole and his arse, and seemed happy to do it all the more, until Aziraphale was swatting his hands at him to leave him alone. Crowley let him flop his hips down, lying against Gabriel, absolutely spent. 

Aziraphale opened his arms, allowing Crowley to cuddle against his chest. But the second he settled, Gabriel said: “We’ll have to do that again sometime, but we should call it a night, shouldn’t we? Crowley, you must want to get back to your room.” 

“Do you?” Aziraphale asked, wanting terribly for them all to stay in bed together. Crowley pushed himself up, though, grabbed his clothes, and closed himself in the bathroom.

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel said just as his mood was getting truly blue. “Humans need to rest.” 

“Of course.” Aziraphale swallowed. “But couldn’t he rest here?” 

Gabriel just laughed, and he scooted down a little to give Aziraphale a kiss on his forehead. “You are the funniest creature in all of existence,” he said. 

“I thought you said Sandalphon was the funniest.” Aziraphale moved to get up and decided he was too sore, so he settled back down on his stomach. Gabriel laughed again, louder this time. “Or do you mean the strangest?” 

“Oh, no,” Gabriel said, as Crowley came back out of the bathroom, fully clothed and in his sunglasses again. “He’s the strangest,” he said, indicating their guest. Aziraphale’s face fell and he looked at Crowley, but Crowley didn’t seem too hurt by it. Crowley came to the bed and gave him a quick kiss, completely ignoring Gabriel. 

“Good night, angel.” 

Gabriel snorted. Aziraphale decided to ignore him too. “Good night, Crowley. I’ll see you tomorrow?” 

“Of course.” Crowley nipped his fingers against Aziraphale’s chin once, and then he stood. He left. 

Gabriel stretched out, yanking Aziraphale up to rest his head against his chest. “You’re welcome,” he said. Aziraphale frowned, but he leaned forward and kissed his mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm in charge! and I! get to pick the timeline!! (I pick a modified canon timeline) (I am probably gonna make mistakes even with picking the timeline, but at least I won't constantly be freaking out about going against the canon apocalypse chronology) (seriously i spent like 45 minutes trying to plot this fic with the canon timeline and i was like YOU KNOW WHAT NO)
> 
> (also i get probably none of y'alls main concerns are the timeline but oh well!)
> 
> (also i really had to restrain myself from making a bunch of American Psycho threesome references)
> 
> (Also! Miles Teller, YA DUNK'D)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> many thanks to [hanggracefully](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanggracefully) and [shabnam_e_maghz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shabnam_e_maghz/pseuds/shabnam_e_maghz) for being my a-team and helping me make sure this wasn't trash

(Thursday)

At 3:00 am, Crowley was still awake, glaring at the ceiling, the sheets pulled up to his chin. Hannah was asleep, her breathing even with the occasional sigh as her Breathe Right strip did its job. Crowley could only lay there and think and think and lay there and then sit up, resolved to march over to Aziraphale’s (ugh, and Gabriel’s) room, and then think that idiotic plan through and lay back down.

Having sex with Aziraphale was and was obviously not how he remembered it. The smell of his sweat, the lost sounds he made, the general sense of delight in sensation and service were all the same. But Gabriel’s presence had made those habits more pronounced, more raw and painful, as everything Aziraphale did had made Crowley want to scoop him up in his arms and hide him away. 

But they had come, all of them. Everyone had enjoyed themselves, and Crowley had been permitted to kiss and suck and attend. And—but he felt sick about it—it _had_ been thrilling to have Gabriel there. Certainly not right, not _safe_. But his presence had added a level of excitement that Crowley had gotten off on. 

He wallowed in his little blanket nest, angry at himself, angry that he’d come, angry that Aziraphale was with Gabriel and not in Crowley’s bed, angry that Azirapahle was with Gabriel at all. But, even irrational as he was in those early hours, he knew Gabriel was the worst of it. He thought it through, the smile on his face as he’d asked _You know who I am?_ the second Aziraphale was out of the room. 

“Good,” and he’d smiled at however it was that Crowley had managed out an affirmative. “I know who you are too, Crawly. Crawly the Serpent,” He hissed the _s_ to punctuate the insult of his own name. He was a bastard. He was a complete prick. “Were you coming back with Aziraphale to swallow him up?” he’d asked. “Or to stick your forked tongue in his ear? Is your tongue forked, Crawly?” 

Crowley had said _sometimes_. Gabriel was likely a lot stronger than him. Crowley didn’t mind a brawl, but he avoided _battle_ when he could, which made the threat of an archangel particularly severe. He wasn’t ready for that fight, and he certainly didn’t want to bet on whose side Aziraphale would take if he came back to a skirmish. So, he said _sometimes_ and let Gabriel laugh at him. 

“_Sometimes_,” Gabriel repeated, with the hiss. “How disgusting,” he stated. “Does Aziraphale know?” 

“About my tongue?” 

Gabriel had rolled his eyes, which Crowley actually viewed as a pretty good sign that he wasn’t about to get smote to shit. “About you.” 

“I was going to tell him,” Crowley found himself saying earnestly. “That’s why I came up with him, so I could tell him.” 

And the memory got a little hazy, because Gabriel smiled all tight and sincere. “If you tell him, I’ll do worse than discorporate you.” He’d said: “Right now, I don’t have the time to walk Aziraphale through a messy, emotional realization, so we’ll just keep that from happening, right, Crawly? And if I smite you now, I can’t avoid it. And if you make me destroy you, I can’t avoid it.”

According to Gabriel, Aziraphale could be really difficult about things like this. And he could tell Crowley wasn't actually there to hurt him, which was pretty damning for a demon. And did Crowley really want to deal with the paperwork of getting a new body? And he definitely wouldn’t want his bosses to find out. “So, have a good time.” Crowley could still hear his voice when he’d said it, and how his stomach had flopped. “In a few days, you’ll go your separate ways, and that’ll be that. No mess. Easy peasy.” 

Crowley nearly flinched at the phrase, but he was managing to keep it together. “So you just want me to…”

“Enjoy Aziraphale. Keep him company. He gets into trouble when he’s not being looked after, and I have a busy week.” Gabriel thought about it and laughed again. “Not like you’re responsible supervision, but at least you’ll keep him occupied.” 

“So, you want me to cuckold you. Because you’ve got a busy schedule.” 

Gabriel didn’t expect him to understand. Crowley was just a low level agent who got a lucky break in the garden 6,000 years ago. “You think you’re here to act in some stupid movie and perform some minor temptations,” he’d said, which Crowley was still trying to parse out. But for reasons Gabriel didn’t care to explain, he wasn’t going to smite him. He was actually going to let Crowley keep doing whatever without interference, and the one condition was that he didn’t cause any problems. “Is that simple enough language for you, Crawly? Do I need to say it sssslower?” 

“Crowley,” he corrected, because Crowley was nothing if not a slut for making situations worse. 

Still, Gabriel nodded, indulging him like a teacher might a child who said they wanted to be Superman when they grew up. “Crowley.” And before Crowley could process any of that, he jumped into the next thing. “Aziraphale is going to want a threesome.” 

Crowley never thought he’d hear an angel say _threesome_, and he didn’t even get to enjoy it because his stomach was turning over on itself, birthday cake and white wine threatening to make a reappearance. He asked what would happen if he didn’t want to. 

Gabriel shrugged. “You’ll hurt his feelings.”

“With you,” Crowley clarified. “What if I don’t want to with you?” 

Frighteningly enough, Gabriel smiled, and his mouth was sharp, his teeth brilliant, and it all looked so perfect. Crowley didn’t usually get the opportunity to feel like prey. “Do you not want to?” he asked. “I have to admit, I’m curious about you. And your body is pretty enough, even if you are a demon. I think Aziraphale will get so wet and willing over it.” 

An idiot in Crowley’s body with Crowley’s voice asked: “Is that something you have a hard time getting: Aziraphale, wet and willing?” 

“Do you want to see?” Gabriel asked back. His voice didn’t even drip, didn’t get lower or warmer. But there was something harsh and coarse underneath it all. Gabriel wanted the experience, an experience which he could never get in Heaven. Crowley wasn’t sure just how truly dark that desire was, but it clearly burned enough for Gabriel to be looking at him like that.

And then Aziraphale had come back, and Crowley had drank faster than he ever did because he didn’t know what to do with his hands or his mouth. It had all been such a disaster, and his cock twitched thinking about it.

* * *

By 6:00, Crowley had decided that the first thing he needed to find out was if Aziraphale could keep a secret. If Crowley could say he was a demon without Aziraphale immediately running to Gabriel, then they could work together to keep Gabriel from inevitably smiting Crowley whenever he realized that there was no way he was going to actually uphold his side of the bargain. 

(What the real question was, although he didn’t want to put it in these terms because the truth might be too upsetting: Did Aziraphale love Gabriel? Not as a member of the Host, but the singular and humanish way in which Crowley at the very least liked Aziraphale.)

At 7:00, Crowley gave up trying to sleep and got out of bed to grab breakfast. It was his turn, after all. 

Unfortunately, Aziraphale was also up, strolling out of the lobby by the time Crowley came down. 

“Hey, Aziraphale,” he called, swaying faster to catch him before he disappeared out the door. 

Aziraphale startled, but he smiled minutely and stopped so Crowley could come by his side. He didn’t even look too shy about what had happened the night before, although Crowley couldn't miss how Aziraphale’s eyes darted to his mouth, alighting there for a long moment before meeting his gaze through the sunglasses. “Good morning,” he said. “Did you sleep well?”

“Like a baby.” He’d fussed and kicked about all night, so it wasn’t even a lie. 

“I’m so glad to hear it,” Aziraphale said, and then he hesitated. “Where are you off to?” 

“I was gonna get us breakfast. To pay you back for yesterday.” Crowley winced once he’d said it, Aziraphale’s face going blank as he determined what he was being paid back for. “Not—uh. I meant you brought me breakfast. Thought you might like it,” he managed, and Aziraphale beginning to smile, just like the sun was beginning to rise. 

“How nice!” Aziraphale said, and Crowley tried to hide his twitch at the word. Luckily, he had ulterior motives now, so his “niceness” could be expensed. “I was going to the bakery myself. Gabriel isn’t one for sweets, so I’d be very happy to breakfast with you.” 

“What are we waiting for then?” Crowley attempted confidence, which must have worked because Aziraphale straightened even more, mouth quirking, gesturing out the door. 

“After you!” he said. 

Crowley wasn’t quite sure what to say as they started walking. “How did, er, how did you sleep?” he asked, knowing they hadn’t. 

Aziraphale sighed, content. “Very well.” He smiled at Crowley so Crowley understood that Gabriel and he hadn’t stopped and that it had been especially good. 

“Hm.” Crowley glared at the cute houses lining the streets, and he wished terribly he could just snap them to the bakery and get this walk over with. 

But Aziraphale started on about the weather, and it was an entirely perfect day, so it didn’t hurt to talk about that. And when Crowley’s hand brushed the back of Aziraphale’s, Aziraphale smiled at him and brushed his hand back.

* * *

Breakfast was coffee and tea and some pastry with more cream on it than was typical for breakfast. “Paris-Brest,” Aziraphale had practically gasped as the baker’s niece showed off her newest addition to the shop. “I love choux pastry,” he mooned, and Crowley had nearly bought him the whole tray. 

It was the right choice, even if Aziraphale halfheartedly moaned about eating dessert so early. After they sat, after the first bite, for the shortest moment Aziraphale had a small, white dab of cream on his upper lip. Crowley got to brush that taste off with his thumb and then lick it away. The resulting pink heat laid high on Aziraphale’s soft cheek as he cleared his throat and ducked his head. 

“Did you,” Aziraphale started, eyes darting to his face, and then rethought it. 

“Yeah?” 

“Well…”

“Just ask.”

“It’s only that I wondered if you enjoyed yourself? Last night. Gabriel can be—I know what he’s like. I just hope he wasn’t too horrible to you?” His voice was so carefully light, like he was saying something about the quaint stone cottage they could see just outside the window. 

Crowley could barely think of a response. “Erm,” he choked out. 

Aziraphale visibly deflated, and Crowley would have brained himself on the table if he didn’t think it might make the situation worse. Still he barreled on, although without much pep. “You see, Gabriel and I were discussing, and he’s very supportive of our friendship. In fact, he hoped you might be amenable to an encore tonight. But of course if you—if you didn’t enjoy it or weren’t interested, I’d understand. It’s just that I thought, with us going out to breakfast, that—” 

“Why not now?” Crowley blurted out. “We could have an encore now, couldn’t we?” 

“Gabriel has work to attend to today, but tonight—”

“Oh, so you just meant with him.” Crowley said, feigning apathy. 

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, watching Crowley like he might grab his coffee and storm off. After a moment’s consideration, he said: “But if it were difficult for you to wait, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.” 

Crowley tried to keep his tone from being too cruel, “Well, as long as it’s all right with him.” Aziraphale scrunched up his brow, utterly confused. “So, I got ole Gabe’s permission to drag you into the loo?”

“Certainly.” Aziraphale’s hands tensed around his fork. “But not mine. Not until after breakfast. If you don’t mind,” he added, like Crowely might and Aziraphale could then be swayed on the issue. 

“Of course not, angel,” Crowley relented, feeling like the worst sort of heel. Of course he had a choice. Of course he didn’t realize he had a choice. “Finish your meal. Is Gabriel already out of your room? I’ll want a bed.” 

“Oh.” Aziraphale seemed to run circles in his own head, enough that he couldn’t think of what to say next. “So, you were serious?” 

“Why not?” Crowley checked the time on his phone, as if time were the issue. “I still have an hour before Ezzy wants me.” 

“But, Crowley...” 

“I like being around you,” Crowley said, all in a rush so he wouldn't feel too sick over it. “So, whatever you want, I’m your guy. You want to go out, I’ll take you. You want a snog and a cuddle, count me in. You want someone to break your back—sorry, it’s an expression.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale drolled. “I figured you weren’t being literal.” 

“I’m saying,” Crowley emphasized, almost desperately. “I’m your man. You can trust me with what you want.”

“There you stand,” Aziraphale murmured to himself, sitting back with his tea poised near his lips. “My _man_.” 

“Er, yes, I mean—in a sense.” 

“Not that I don’t appreciate this, but did Gabriel ask you to spy for him? Because I can’t imagine you wanting to be at my whim so, dear.” 

Crowley opted for honestly in a split second decision. “He asked me to keep you company. But I’m not reporting back to him. He’s an absolute twat. No offense.” 

“None taken; he admittedly has certain, ah, _caddish_ tendencies.” 

“Hah,” Crowley was already leaping on that. “_Caddish_—”

“Are you sure you want to be devoting yourself to me like that?” Aziraphale asked, watching him carefully over the rim of his mug. “You don’t quite know me. You don’t know what that might mean for me.” 

Crowley had an idea of what it might mean to devote himself to an angel. Prayer, worship, offerings of both wheat and flesh; all the things he was supposed to be stealing away from the Almighty with his whole fame endeavour. And, with Aziraphle, he’d already been a least somewhat devoted, even before he’d known the particulars of his etheriality. That seemed to be the trouble with friendship.

Not waiting for Crowley to try again, Aziraphale popped another forkful into his mouth, groaning. His eyes a little hazy, he looked at Crowley in a state of near bliss. “You have to try this. She was so excited to make them.” He was already sectioning him a bite. 

“Can you taste that?” Crowley asked, feeling more fascinated over the idea than he was comfortable with, and then nipped the taste of Aziraphale’s fork. It seemed like a normal profiterole. Still, he let his lips linger on the utensil. Just for good measure, he moaned as he chewed.

Aziraphale, either because of the gseture or the slip of the tongue, looked pleasantly embarrassed. “Oh, well, you know when one says something’s been cooked with love. It’s like that. Must be an American variation.” 

It was not, and Crowley knew as much because usually tasting excitement in food would be a bad thing: the sign of an overeager, amateur chef. As Aziraphale was putting the fork down to get the last nibble, Crowley leaned across the table, nearly knocking his mug of coffee over in his haste to get to Aziraphale’s mouth. He kissed him, making sure to thoroughly suck his tongue. Both palms on the table between them, he was standing at an awkward angle, almost certain he could hear the baker’s niece giggling. 

“What about me?” he asked regardless. “Can you taste how excited I am?” 

The fork clattered against the plate, Aziraphale making a low, desperate sound as he took Crowley’s face in his palm and kissed him back. “You taste,” he breathed in between his careful samplings, “You taste so _warm_.” He wanted to say more, but there was coughing behind the counter—the baker, who was about to have the most inconvenient of days.

Aziraphale became self-conscious again and took his hand away, sitting back. Crowley flopped back with a sigh and a glare at the nasty, old prude behind the counter who was currently banging his elbow against the suddenly open cash drawer. 

Movements stiff, Aziraphale returned to his mug and kept his gaze off Crowley for a moment so he could collect himself. 

“Sorry,” Crowley said, disgusting himself by sounding genuine. “Finish your food.” 

Lucky for them both, it was only one bite; lucky for Crowley, Aziraphale chewed fast.

* * *

Crowley had had grand plans to put Aziraphale to the test, but he kept getting distracted. He’d walked Aziraphale to his door and was invited in, a pretense that still made Crowley’s heart flutter and his stomach flip. He removed their jackets and shoes, laid Aziraphale back onto the bed, and climbed on beside him to curl at his side and pamper his mouth with kisses. It was perfect, except he also wanted the weight of Aziraphale on top of him, and he wanted Aziraphale under him to grind against, and he wanted Aizraphale to be naked, and he wanted Aziraphale to be comfortable and warm and held. 

“I’m afraid we don’t have much time before we have to go in, my dear,” Aziraphale’s voice was quiet, even if it was only them. He had his pretty, little fingers fisted against the front of Crowley’s shirt, and it would probably have wrinkled terribly if Crowley’s wardrobe didn’t know better. “What did you have in mind?” 

Crowley kissed his mouth, his throat, over the hickey that Gabriel had renewed sometime the night before. He left Aziraphale’s shirt on because he wasn’t about to be embarrassed by the buttons this early in the morning, and miracles were flat out until he was certain that Aziraphale could be trusted. 

The trousers and drawers did get pulled off, leaving Aziraphale in his stockinged feet, his legs curling up and his gaze careful on Crowley’s face. Crowlery fumbled his sunglasses off for good measure, and Aziraphale smiled and parted his knees. His lips, too, parted, as if he might have something to say, or maybe just out of surprise. 

“Does Gabriel eat you out much?” Crowley asked.

“Constantly,” Aziraphale sighed. “For hours.” 

“Oh,” Crowley said, having assumed Gabriel was an entirely selfish lover. Although, he supposed as he got between those legs, one might eat pussy for their own gratification. Selfish was probably the wrong word for Gabriel—tyrannical, maybe.

Crowley pressed an absentminded kiss to Aziraphale’s knee and then his tender inner thigh. The smell of his was rich, warm. “Finally,” Crowley hushed, breath trembling over his delicate soft pink slit, “I think I understand what you meant. ‘She was excited to make it.’” He curled one hand in, touched the wrinkle of his lips, spreading him to where he was glistening and blushing. “The Hand that made you,” Crowley said, peeking up. Aziraphale was still pushed up on his elbows, his face and neck flushed. He seemed to be shivering, his mouth quavering at the words. Crowley had never seen his eyes darker. “There must have been a riot when you were formed,” he said, letting the pad of his index finger flick against Aziraphale’s fat clit. “I can hardly imagine the excitement.” 

“You really must get on,” Aziraphale warbled, “Or you’ll absolutely talk me over the edge and I won’t be able to show you my face for the rest of the week.”

Cheek resting against shaking thigh, Crowley let his eyes drift shut. “I can’t imagine a worse fate.”

“And,” Aziraphale’s voice broke into a haughty whine, his stomach tensing so tight that every breath seemed to be a gasp, “You haven’t even _tasted_ yet—you have to _taste_ it, you—”

Crowley did. He led with his tongue—unforked, but long and smooth. Aziraphale’s pussy tasted tremendously like pussy, whether because he’d sampled some himself or just that he’d gotten the chemical combination right. Even then, though, it did taste of sweet other nonthings: warmth, comfort, a faint memory of when Crowley—before he was Crowley—had scooped stardust up with one finger and snuck it into his mouth. But that was the taste of Aziraphale; the home-taste that he hadn’t recognized when he’d first put his mouth on him all those years ago because it had been buried so deep in the past. 

Aziraphale fell back, no longer wanting or able to support himself. Crowley crowded against him more, pushing one thigh up, trying to work his tongue in deeper. His other hand he placed on Aziraphale’s pubic mound, his thumb tipping down to catch slick and smear it over that poor, swollen clitoris. And what a perfect clit, Crowley almost wanted to coo, because the whole thing had him feeling so disgustingly precious. It was thick, shyly hooded, and rosy pink, and Aziraphale jerked and hitched wonderfully when Crowley so much as breathed over it. 

_Hours_, he thought. He could do it for hours. Days, if Aziraphale wanted it, but certainly hours and hours, sipping him here, holding him there. 

Crowley’s phone buzzed in his back pocket, and if it wasn’t for the vibration, he would have completely missed it. 

“Oh-h,” Aziraphale said. Crowley peeked an eye open, saw a lily white hand clutched on the duvet, and thought that was good. “Your cellular—”

“Not important,” Crowley said, moving instead to suck his clitoris. 

Aziraphale cried out at the shift but then started to wriggle. “My dear, don’t you think you should get it?” 

“Uh-uh,” Crowley said, not removing his mouth and making Aziraphale thrash some. 

His cell buzzed again. Aziraphale pushed up, batting at Crowley’s shoulder. 

“Angel,” he groused, pulling up as little as possible. “It’s not more important. Please lie back down.”

“Nonsense!” Aziraphale said, squirming out from under him. “It could be Hannah, or Ms. Volk.”

“I don’t care.” Crowley wasn’t sure how to explain that any better. He leaned in to share his mouth with Aziraphale, hoping the taste would knock some sense into him. For a moment, it seemed to work, and Crowley was able to move down his chin and bite at his neck. 

The cell phone then buzzed two times in quick succession. Aziraphale put his hand on Crowley’s chest while Crowley groaned in complete agony. Crowley’s cell phone would be spending an indefinite amount of time on silent so it could learn not to interrupt. He took his phone out of his pocket but pointedly did not look at it. Aziraphale easily grabbed it out of his hands and tried to tap it awake. 

“Oh, no, is that the time?” Aziraphale pointed clumsily at the phone display. “I was sure it was a little earlier. I knew we shouldn’t have started.” 

“It’s fine,” Crowley promised. His mouth was still slick and hot, and it seemed very unfair that work should come between them. “It’s just the readthrough. I don’t have lines until page 20. I’ll just drive extra fast.”

“How dangerous!” Aziraphale got up, reaching for his drawers, shaking out the wrinkles. “You will certainly not.” 

“Please don’t get dressed. I can finish you quick.” Crowley caught his wrist. Aziraphale did stop and smile a press a kiss to Crowley’s cheek. 

“I wouldn’t dream of getting you in trouble,” he said. “After all, if you’re to be devoted to me, I have to take responsibility for you, don’t I? That is,” Aziraphale made a play of hesitating, the smug bastard, “If you still would like to be my devotee?” 

Heat shot through Crowley’s stomach and into his throat, so he nodded and let him go. He wiped his mouth. Azirphale got dressed, humming a little, fastening himself away. “How can you just turn it off?” Crowley asked, finally putting his glasses back on. 

Aziraphale laughed, untroubled but still speckled with flush. “Ages of practice,” he said. “Gabriel is incredibly important. It keeps him busy.” 

Crowley pursed his mouth, trying to suss out if there was malice or discontent in how Aziraphale had said it. Aziraphale checked himself in the mirror, tutting over his hair. He was used to being put on hold, at the very least, and couldn’t see why Crowley wasn’t. “I’m still going to drive fast,” Crowley said.

“No,” Aziraphale decided cheerily. “You won’t.”

* * *

The car wouldn’t go over 25. Crowley floored it, but the car just wouldn’t speed up at all. 

“Oh, I can see all the trees and houses, and look there’s a little dog!” Aziraphale trilled. “Thank you for driving the limit, dear. Isn’t this nice?”

Crowley grit his teeth. He should have foreseen that putting himself under Aziraphale’s guardianship would have drawbacks. “You listen to me,” he hissed to the Bently. “Not him.” The car sped up to 30.

“Hm?” Aziraphale asked, looking away from the fat dachshund that had caught his eye. “Oh, my, Crowley, do watch the speedometer. We can’t have an accident.” The car went back down, to 20 this time.

“We’re never going to get there!”

“Oh, so now you’re worried about being late.”

“_No_, I—”

“You’re the one driving,” Aziraphale sniffed. “You of course can drive as fast as the car will allow you.” He looked out the window again. “But isn’t this much nicer?”

It was not at all, except Aziraphale did lean his head back and coo over the passing birds and flowers, and he put his hand on Crowley’s knee.

* * *

Hannah was already there by the time they had safely arrived and parked. She was speaking with Ezzy, looking positively ferocious. Her eyes narrowed when Crowley walked in, and she stamped over. “Did you get my messages? I texted you 20 times. Actors!” she spat. “They want you out of sunglasses for the movie, and I’m _trying_ to _explain_,” she said, shouting those words over her shoulder at an unimpressed Ezzy, “Your _contract_ is _very specific_ that you keep them on. If they wanted you to show off your bits and bobs, that’d be different but the _sunglasses_ are _non-negotiable_!”

Aziraphale started: “I thought—”

Crowley forced a laugh and took Hannah by the elbow. “Remember; we’re making an exception.”

“What are you talking about?” she nearly shouted. 

“We’re making an exception,” he said through his teeth, walking her toward Ezzy. “Remember?” He explained to Ezzy and Hannah that they’d decided to give the wizard snake eyes, as an allusion to the first sin of Eden. They’d already had him get his eyes done up for it, because Volk films were known for their use of makeup and practical effects over CGI. 

“How?” Ezzy asked. 

“It’s a new, er, makeup… tech. Don’t worry about it. Point is: we’re waiving that part of the contract just once, and we won’t talk about it any more. Besides, I think the wizard is described as sinuous at least once, so it’s not too much of a stretch to snake-ly. Ezra Fell—” and he came to an abrupt stop, tearing his gaze away to search out Aziraphale, who was chatting by catering with Warlock’s nanny, Janae or whatever. “Fuck,” he said, not because it was a problem but because he felt really stupid. “Fuck me, _Ezra Fell_.”

“What is this?” Hannah asked. “You getting it out of your system before the kiddies show?” 

“Ugh,” Crowley pushed up his sunglasses to rub his eyes. “Fuck me,” he repeated, and barely managed to keep from laughing. “It’s just funny he’s the leading Ezra Fell scholar, that’s all.” 

“Mr. Aziraphale?” Ezzy asked, her serious face even more dour. 

“I just wasn’t thinking about it,” he assured himself, feeling a little dismantled by the last few days. With Aziraphale being alive and an angel and married to _that_ Gabriel and giving away his holy weapon and also being an absolute minx, he hadn’t had the time to think about it. He hadn’t questioned why Aziraphale would be a leading scholar. To Hannah and Ezzy, he finally said: “Haven’t you noticed their names sound similar? Ezra Fell; Aziraphale.”

Hannah looked utterly unimpressed. “Huh.”

“Oh, I guess you’re right,” Ezzy looked to Hannah for more information, but clearly there was none which might help. 

“That was Mrs. Young,” Ezzy’s assistant said, walking up and pocketing her cell phone. “Apparently there was some trouble with the boys this morning, and so they’ll be here in about 30 minutes.” 

“Excuse me,” Crowley said, leaving without another word and striding right over to Aziraphale. “It’s going to be another 30 minutes.” 

“Oh?” Aziraphale raised his eyebrows. 

“I knew I should have picked them up this morning,” the useless nanny moaned. “Mrs. Young just assured me it wouldn’t be any trouble. But Warlock is—well, half boy, half trouble is what the last chaperone told me.” 

“Thirty minutes,” Crowley said again. Janae, realizing she was being snubbed, took out her phone and started messaging, wandering away like it was her idea.

“I don’t know what you expect us to do,” Aziraphale said.

“There’s a unisex loo in the back. No one will notice.” 

“Yes, that _sounds_ nice, but—” 

“If you don’t want to come with me, I could just go and touch myself. With the door unlocked.” 

Aziraphale tried to hide his laugh with a dramatic gasp. “You wouldn’t!” 

“If you want to watch over me, you’ll have to come along.” 

So, Crowley led him to the toilet, sank to his knees the second the door was shut, and got Aziraphale’s pants around his calves. Aziraphale tugged his hair with both hands, his head knocking against the wood door. Crowley only took his sunglasses off when he realized how foggy they were getting. 

If Aziraphale’s legs hadn’t been trapped, he’d have tried to get one thigh over his shoulder, enough to keep him wavering the whole time, his weight settled firmly between Crowley and the door. As it was, Aziraphale pushed his hips forward and Crowley made do, spreading him and sucking him off.

* * *

Crowley wasn’t sure what this had taught him, except that he was desperate for Aziraphale’s touch to the point of being stupid about it. They were supposed to be talking. He was supposed to be finding things out, detecting weaknesses, and then exploiting the knowledge in a truly wicked fashion. But Aziraphale’s soft index finger brushed the corner of Crowley’s mouth, collecting his own slick and some spit, and Crowley went nonverbal. 

(Worse, Aziraphale put that finger in his mouth. But Crowley had known that he’d do that, and so that didn’t teach him anything except that he needed to figure out what to do with Gabriel soon because Aziraphale deserved the world but that was hard to give without the use of miracles.) 

“Shall I do you now?” he asked, helping Crowley back to his feet. 

“Ngh, no, I’m okay. We probably shouldn’t be gone too long.” Crowley put his sunglasses back on and cleaned his face in the mirror. 

“If you’re sure,” Aziraphale said lightly. “I’m certain I could be quick.” 

“Yeah, I know.” Crowley felt heat creeping up his ears. “How about later?” 

“Of course!” Aziraphale said, as if they were talking about where they might get a spot of lunch. Crowley realized, in a way, he might be said spot. Aziraphale’s voice lowered, asking: “Should one of us leave first? To not raise suspicion?” 

“Are you worried about people knowing?” 

“We did just have sex at a work function, so I don’t think it’s too prudish of me.” 

“No, I mean...” Crowley swallowed. “Do people know about you and Gabriel? His, er, colleagues?” 

Aziraphale looked uncomfortable with the question. Crowley probably should have nuanced. “Of course they know. How could they not?” 

“It’s just, you know, _the military_ can be unsupportive about these types of things?” 

“Oh!” Aziraphale laughed in a quick rush of breath. “You mean because he and I are men.”

“I mean because you’re you and he’s him.” Crowley could feel the conversation being lost in the abstractions. “Do you share friends?” he tried.

“I’ll head out first,” Aziraphale decided. “Do I look presentable?” he asked, smiling, waiting for his inspection.

“Yeah,” Crowley choked. “You look great."

Aziraphale preened. “Thank you darling,” and he placed a kiss on Crowley’s lips before ducking out. 

Crowley gave himself three minutes to figure out what he should do next. When his three minutes were up and his head was still twisted around, he stepped out anyway.

* * *

Not long after, Mrs. Young bustled in with the two boys in tow, interrupting the mindless conversation Crowley was trying to pull from Aziraphale while he refigured his plans. “So sorry!” she called. “They kept trying to sneak Adam’s new dog—”

“_Our_ dog!” Warlock crowed.

“Yes, she _is_ our dog,” Adam agreed, like they had gone over this a few times. “And seeing how she’s our dog, I don’t see why she couldn’t come along if she wanted.” 

“Adam, we talked about this,” Mrs. Young said in low tones, her eyes darting around the room as if the presence of others might in some way cow the young boy. 

She herded the two of them into seats by the nanny, who asked: “So, it’s a girl dog, Warlock?” 

Warlock scrunched his face, absolutely disgusted. “We haven’t checked."

“That seems a very private thing,” Adam explained to the nanny. Janae looked very lost. Crowley glanced over to Aziraphale, who was watching with rapt attention, a slight smile on his face. Happy enough to watch a trainwreck if Aziraphale didn’t mind it, Crowley sat back, an arm slinging over the back of his chair. 

Mrs. Young winced, offering the cast and crew a restrained smile. “They’ve been like this all morning.” 

Ezzy cleared her throat. “Adam and Warlock, are you going to be able to do the readthrough today?” 

Warlock bristled. “I’m a professional. My wife, once I have a wife, might be in labor, and I’d still do my job.”

“Even if we’re worried about what Dog might get up to while we’re gone, there’s no reason to raise a fuss.” Adam looked perfectly reasonable as he said it too, eyes on the script in front of him, opening it up.

“Speaking of rehearsal!” Warlock blabbed. “In all my other jobs, I had the script in advance and it didn’t change once I got there. Have you really made a movie before?” he asked.

“She directed the Vision movie,” Adam said. “Did you see that one?”

“Ugh! Vision is the most boring superhero ever!”

“Oh, Lord,” Ezzy said. 

“The movie was all right, even if Hawkeye showed up.” 

“Boys,” Ezzy tried, looking to their guardians for help.

“It’s only that we _are_ worried about if Dog is acclimating well to his new environment, which is making us distracted.” Adam looked entirely serious. Crowley figured, if they were able to get through this rehearsal let alone start shooting, the boys were going to be perfect in the film. 

“Mrs. Young,” Ezzy said evenly. “It is 100 percent all right with me if the dog joins us in rehearsal, provided it doesn’t prove a further distraction. Should you change your mind on this issue.” 

Mara, the young assistant, chimed in: “I’d be happy to go and fetch him.”

“If Mrs. Young changes her mind,” Ezzy repeated. “We of course are deferring to her decision on the matter.” 

“Yes, yes, all right,” Mrs. Young was already saying, shouldering her purse and grabbing her keys. Mara, having offered and now clearly unsure what to do, trailed behind, out the door. Aziraphale laughed suddenly, so Crowley had to smile too. Janae startled, sending them both a look, and Aziraphale delicately got a hold of himself and cleared his throat. 

“Will we be able to start,” Ezzy asked slowly, “Or should we wait for our newest crew member?”

“I think we can start,” Adam said, checking with Warlock, who nodded.

Aziraphale turned in as the reading began, leaning in to the arm Crowley had stretched behind his seat. “Do you think this means that beast will be salaried?” 

Crowley grinned. “I can’t imagine Warlock won’t try to negotiate the best deal possible.”

“Hello!” Ezzy said, loud enough to grab both of their attentions. “Is there some sort of animal or token I need to acquire to get the two of you to settle down?” 

Beside them, Hannah put her phone down, ready to fight. Ultimately, she seemed unsure if she should berate the director for her nerve or Crowley for his lapse of professionalism. Aziraphale sat back in his chair, a picture of innocence.

“He started it,” Crowley said, pointing. Aziraphale gasped. 

“Oh, Christ on a cross,” Ezzy said, and the reading resumed.

* * *

Just as the reading was wrapping up, a huge man walked in with a camera bag on his shoulder. A few people, very much dwarfed by his size, skittered about after him, grabbing some bags and putting others down. Ezzy put a finger up to ask him to wait, which he did, unmoving from the doorway. 

“_I have to say_,” Adam read, “_You're rather like a hero yourself, although you don’t quite act it_.”

“_Stop, or I’ll blush_,” Warlock read back. There was a narrative beat, read by Ezzy. “_I don’t know where to go, Percy. Ever. I feel so lost. I miss my mother_.” 

“_Oh, that’s all right_,” Adam read, voice kind. “_You can walk behind me, and I’ll figure out where to go next_.” 

“_Didn’t you hear me? I miss my mother_.”

“_I heard. Here, take my hand. I think I see a path out of the forest up ahead_.” 

The second Adam finished his line, the man mountain moved, stomping over to Ezzy as Adam and Warlock ducked under the table to check on Dog, who was currently napping, chin on Crowley’s shoe. 

“What’s the prognosis, Will?” she asked.

“I just want to see if I’m understanding,” he said, his voice low but surprisingly light. He was an American of some sort, although Crowley had never been able to parse those accents. “You want to film here, in the woods, with natural lighting and almost entirely practical effects?” 

“Yes, that’s the idea.” 

Will’s broad face broke into a huge, although possibly strained smile. “Okay,” he said. “But we should shoot some tests in the forest so you have an idea of what a pain in the neck you’ve just signed up for. Maybe bring some of the actors along, see how the light picks them up and get some special feature footage.” 

“Boys,” Ezzy called, as they were resurfacing, Dog following them and shaking off sleep. “Would you like to come to the woods and help us film some tests?” 

“Dog can come?” Adam checked.

“I would not dream of leaving Dog out of anything. I’m thinking of making her an assistant director.” 

“Will Mr. Crowley be joining us?” Warlock asked.

“If he’s not busy with other things,” Ezzy said, eyes narrowing but not enough to give away that she knew what he and Aziraphale were up to. Crowley could tell, but only because he was looking and he felt sort of smug over it. 

“I’d love to see where you’ll be filming,” Aziraphale said, and that settled it. 

“We’ll meet you there,” Crowley said, gathering up his things and taking Aziraphale by the hand.

* * *

The Tadfield forest really was beautiful, and Aziraphale sighed the moment he stepped out of the car by the marker Will had told them to meet by. He’d let Crowley drive as fast as he wanted, and Crowley, not wanting to push it, doubled the speed limit instead of tripling. “The air,” he said, and he smiled at Crowley. “It’s so fresh. Like it was just made.” 

Not for the first time, Crowley wondered where Aziraphale had been all of this time. How had he hidden away, and how had Crowley missed him? He wanted to ask him where he’d been when the air was new, and if he had seen the snake and thought it’s eyes were beautiful. He wanted to apologize that it had taken so long, that it was _still_ taking them so long.

Instead he said, “We’re going to have to get a late lunch.” 

“Shall we?” Aziraphale asked, offering his arm. Crowley only barely trembled as he took it, and together they ducked into the woods. “With the way you drove,” Aziraphale hummed, "They won’t be here for a few minutes, will they?” Crowley snuck a look at him. Aziraphale seemed calm, pure in his thought and deed. Crowley knew at this point that was almost always a front. “There’s something about this place, these woods! How well loved they are!” 

They were walking far enough in that Crowley could only barely see the dirt road and the Bentley. They stopped in a spot of sun, under the thin trunk of a particularly old birch tree. Crowley hadn’t realized they’d walked so far that even the thin trucks would be enough to hide them from any approaching cars. 

“Darling,” Aziraphale said, reaching up to touch the corner of Crowley’s lips with his index finger. “I fear I have not loved you well today.” 

“Ah.” Crowley floundered. “No, that’s not why I did it.” 

“I know it’s not. In fact, I’m very cross with you for wanting me to be so selfish. I really do enjoy reciprocating, and I’m wonderful at it. And you haven’t even allowed me to show you!” 

The problem was that Crowley did know how wonderful at it he was. He could remember the singular focus, the simple pleasure with which Aziraphale had taken his cock into his mouth. He liked it so much that Gabriel called him _Deep Throat_, after that horrible porno—which was bizarre because now he knew they were both angels but also made complete sense because now he’d met Gabriel. 

“Aren’t you worried about when Will gets here and starts filming? Do you want your film debut to be a scandal?” Crowley asked, only barely managing to stay cool. 

Aziraphale shook his head, although he looked actually sort of interested in the idea. His mouth fell open, his pupils dilated, and Crowley’s dick twitched. “No one will see us.”

“Right,” Crowley gulped, and Aziraphale sank to his knees. 

Crowley helped him as best as he could with his jeans, but he mostly just got in his way. Aziraphale ended up batting his hands away with a smile. When he got Crowley’s cock free, it was already embarrassingly hard. This was no problem for Aziraphale who hummed and kissed the tip, open-mouthed and sloppy, eyes peeking up at Crowley’s face. 

Once Aziraphale had sucked around the head and closed his eyes, Crowley finally cupped the back of his neck, panting. He didn’t want to speed him up, just to hold and curl the soft hair at his nape around his fingers. Aziraphale bobbed his head, getting a taste for him, and then took him in deeper, and took him in deeper, and took him to the root. He moaned louder than Crowley did at that, because Crowley could do barely more than shudder through each breath he took. 

Opening his eyes, Crowley had wanted to glimpse Aziraphale’s mouth stretched, his nose pressed against his pelvis. Instead, he saw movement near the edge of his vision and froze. Aziraphale made a noise, curious as to why he’d locked up. “I think I see someone,” Crowley hissed. 

“I told you,” Aziraphale grouched, pulling back reluctantly. “No one is going to find us.” 

And it was true; the figures, two of them he could now see, were stalking toward them, but it was clear they couldn’t see them. Aziraphale must have put some sort of mask over them, because the figures walked by without breaking their conversation or addressing Crowley. By all accounts they should have because Crowley knew them, knew they were demons, and knew that they weren’t the types to let anyone enjoy public fellatio uninterrupted. 

“I’m only saying,” one demon said, “I would have liked a bit more notice that we were going to have to come up.” 

“Quit complaining,” the other snarled. 

“Must not be very observant,” Aziraphale murmured, not even bothering to look up, which would have certainly given him pause because they actually looked demonic. Aziraphale seemed much more captivated by the sight of his one plump hand cupping Crowley’s thick, pink prick and the other, now tugging at his balls. 

“Angel,” Crowley growled. Aziraphale clearly thought he was stupid. (Crowley had to remind himself that he did the exact same thing to humans, usually with positive results). 

Even before the sound of Hastur and Ligur’s footsteps disappeared, Aziraphale was dipping down, deciding he wanted to lave around his own fingers, sucking at the skin of his undercarriage. 

A part of Crowlry wasn’t sure he was going to be able to finish, craning his neck to follow the two demons. It couldn’t be good if they were here, obviously. And why now, when Gabriel had also just arrived? What convergence of events —

Aziraphale took him into his mouth, let the head of his cock poke the back of his throat, and started to hum, loud and insistent. Crowley bucked up against him, glancing down. Aziraphale was looking at him and made a small, pleased noise when Crowley’s attention was reclaimed. His eyes shut, seemingly at peace, and he fucked his throat on Crowley’s prick.

* * *

They stumbled out of the woods, Crowley feeling half-boneless. Aziraphale looked like that one cat, the one who’d gotten creamed, and he waved as the other cars pulled up. Will and Ezzy parked next to the Bentley, Mrs. Young and Janae following. 

“Were you a stunt driver before you became an actor?” Will asked.

“What?” Crowley asked.

Adam, Warlock, and Dog tumbled out of the car too, already off and running along the treeline. Crowley followed them with his eyes, looking for head or hide of his demonic colleagues and finding nothing. There wasn’t even a trace of sulfur, a wisp of smoke. Their presence couldn’t be a coincidence—except stranger things had happened. 

“Don’t go too far, boys!” Mrs. Young said, and Crowley thought maybe Hastur and Ligur had been looking for him. If that were the case, they should have saved themselves some trouble and just called. 

Aziraphale seemed totally relaxed, watching as the children ran after their dog, shouting and laughing. Will started to set up his camera on the dirt road, training in on where Crowley and Aziraphale had stopped, staying an acceptable few steps apart. 

“You know, you could be an actor,” Will said, startling Aziraphale out of his smug quietness. “You have a unique look, plus you’re handsome.” 

He looked from Will to Crowley and then back. “Me?” Will smiled. Aziraphale shifted his weight, the entire mood disappearing. “Ah, how funny.” 

“He’s not making fun of you,” Crowley said. 

“No, I wasn’t accusing him of—I mean, thank you.” Aziraphale’s posture was rigid. He looked close to apologizing. “That was kind of you to say.” Will pointedly set up the camera. He said to Crowley: “It’s just I’ve always considered myself more of an acquired taste.” 

“Why?” Crowley asked, wondering if he could get him to say it. 

“It’s just a body anyway,” Aziraphale barreled on, wringing his hands, toying with his marriage band. “So many others like it.” 

“I guess,” Crowley said, “But you’re in the body.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale waved it off. “Vanity. I can’t expect you to understand; you’re a glamorous movie star.”

“You haven’t always felt like that.” There were millennia where Aziraphale would have been the height of beauty, the most lovely thing any human would hope to meet. And Aziraphale, who liked attention so much, would have noticed. 

“Felt like what?” Aziraphale larked. “Oh, look, he’s filming. What should we do, Crowley? Let’s wave.” Crowley waved, feeling all sorts of angry about it.

* * *

Crowley now had two problems, instead of just the one, which he hadn’t even been making good headway on. By the time he and Aziraphale sat down for lunch, he almost just told him what he’d seen. He was certain that having Aziraphale’s mind on the task as well could only help. Of course, that was entirely contingent on if he didn’t snap himself away and loose Gabriel after him.

Truthfully, it wasn’t even lunchtime anymore, not that Crowley minded, and it was late enough in the day for the dinner specials to be advertised at the little curry to-go place on Tadfield’s main street. 

Aziraphale had soaked up the sunshine and was glowing, radiant, beaming at the man behind the register. In the woods, the boys had warmed up to him some, and even Dog only snapped at him once before jumping up on his trouser leg and demanding a scratch. 

The worst thing was, Crowley realized as Aziraphale ordered for them, he’d have to ruin Aziraphale’s good mood to deal with either of his problems, whether through more probing questions or dashing out the door to track down Hastur and Ligur. 

They sat in a little booth, and the man brought them out their meals. 

“Do you know what business Gabriel has here?” Crowley asked, trying to look casual with his elbow on the plastic table top, chin propped. Even a veiled answer might help. 

“He never tells me about work things,” Aziraphale said, eyeing his curry chips.

Crowley grinned, although he covered the twitch with his hand. He nudged the styrofoam plate toward him, Aziraphale looking surprised to have been caught. “Not sure they were made with much excitement. Just the frier,” he warned. 

“Oh, well,” Aziraphale said. “Some things taste good regardless.” 

“Do you ever ask him?” Crowley asked, once he stopped feeling so endeared and Aziraphale had finished his bite.

Aziraphale considered that, tucking into his own chicken korma. “I used to,” he said after chewing thoughtfully. “But even I do tire of being told no.” 

“Would you ask him?” Crowley pushed. Aziraphale looked confused, but also pleased with his meal, and maybe a little uncomfortable with the subject matter. “I’m just curious. What would _the military_ want in Tadfield?” 

“Oh, he might just be staying here for me. The, uh, military can make such funny decisions, anyway. Hard to even know what they’re up to.” 

Crowley wasn’t sure Aziraphale was allowed to say that, but lightning didn’t strike and he returned to his dish. “Could I ask Gabriel?” 

Aziraphale laughed. “Of course you _could_, dear boy. I don’t know what good it would do you, but you _could_.”

“Will he be joining us tonight?” 

Stealing another curry chip, Aziraphale enjoyed that before answering. “Gabriel normally comes and goes as he pleases. It’s hard to account for where he’ll be.” 

“But he always knows where you are, I bet.” Crowley didn’t mean for that to come out so cold, but even he felt a little discomforted by his harsh tone.

“It’s not difficult to know,” Aziraphale placated. “I hardly do anything. Don’t be angry.” He reached across the table so Crowley would take his hand. He almost didn’t do it, because he felt so powerless in the whole situation. But when he offered his hand in return, Aziraphale looked so grateful. 

“It’s just how it has to be, with him being him and me being me. It’s all right,” Aziraphale went on, carefully watching his face to make sure he was getting through. “I’m used to it now. And it means I hardly have to deal with him being a bore, which I’m sure you’ve noticed he can be,” he added, trying to elicit a laugh. Crowley could only manage a smile. “Oh, dear, and now we’ve nearly spoiled the whole afternoon with all that negativity.” 

“I like being negative,” Crowley grouched.

“I like it for you, then.” Aziraphale let his hand go. “But you needn’t be so when it comes to Gabriel. Everything is fine. You saw, didn’t you? How well he treats me?”

“I saw how he treats you.” 

Aziraphale’s good humor flinched, so he went back to his food. “Do you have plans for the rest of the day? Ezzy’s arranged for me to look over the costumes, although I don’t know what she expects me to do!” 

“I have to see Hannah off, and then I’m yours.” 

Ducking his head, Aziraphale seemed to want to hide his pleasure at the rededication. Crowley did have to worry about what would happen to his car at the end of this—on the ride over, he hadn’t been able to go over 40. “She’s not staying?” 

“She just wanted to make sure the production started all right. She’ll check back in a week or so. She _does_ have other clients, although I’m obviously the most trouble.” 

“Yes, I can imagine,” Aziraphale hummed.

Crowley finally snagged a curry chip for himself. “_Bastard_,” he hissed, to which Aziraphale looked absolutely delighted. The food was fine, nothing special, but he liked it for Aziraphale.

* * *

Hannah explicitly told him not to see her off and to go over the script instead. She was packing up her neat travel case, folding and then cramming, breath labored at her effort. “The last thing I need is you turning this into an adult film. If you’re too sexual in a children’s movie, the MPAA will rate you up, and they’ll cut you out of the movie entirely.” 

“You act like I used to do porn,” Crowley sneered, although his heart wasn’t in it. Aziraphale had excused himself after lunch and told him to come by the room after 6:00, which didn’t give him much time to do any investigating on the demon front. 

“Just because the public hasn’t found it doesn’t mean it’s not there.” Hannah paused, and then demanded a more serious: “Don’t let them fuck with your contract any more.” 

“I won’t.”

“I mean it.” Hannah was zipping up her bag. “The sunglasses thing is going to set a bad precedent.”

“I’m sure you can handle it.” 

“And _please_ don’t get yourself killed by Mr. Aziraphale’s husband. If you have to mess around, and it has to be with _him_, don’t be stupid about it. You know how military types can be.”

Crowley thought it wouldn’t be much help to say he was fucking the husband too, especially because that didn’t really lower his chances of getting killed. “I know how military wives can be even better.” 

“I’m serious, Crowley. You like having a bad boy reputation, fine, but please do not become someone no director wants to work with. I want to buy a new car, and I need you to be profitable.” 

“David Bowie,” Crowley said.

“What?”

“He was sexy, in _Labyrinth_. So.” He shrugged.

“I’m going now. Don’t make me regret this,” Hannah threatened, but it was without much heat. In all their years together, for all the headache Crowley caused, he was usually able to pull off some level of professionalism. 

“Safe travels,” he called, and she shut the door behind her. 

He switched off the game he’d been playing on his phone, swiping over to Google, ready to find some answers. He typed “demonic activity Tadfield” and then rethought that because it probably wouldn't bring much up. He instead searched “Tadfield” and waded through the top news articles, each boasting hot summers, white Christmases, tranquility, and peace. 

Crowley groaned, because that was terrible. But he couldn’t quite search “why might angels and demons meet up in British countryside?” and expect to get much of merit. Which meant he’d have to ask Gabriel.

* * *

When he knocked on Aziraphale’s door, he had a bottle of mid-tier whiskey in hand, which they uncorked and tried in contemplative silence. It was horrendously honeysweet but endlessly drinkable. 

Crowley had been half-sure that they wouldn’t even bother to drink it, too caught up in each other to get a chance. But Aziraphale was more than glad to sit on the bed with a glass cradled in his perfect palm while Crowley flipped through TV channels.

“There’s usually _Golden Girls_ repeats on somewhere. You ever watch that?” 

“That’s the one, the funny one,” Aziraphale tried, looking happily at a loss. He sipped his whiskey and relaxed into the pillows propped up behind him. 

“You don’t watch much TV then, do you?” Crowley grinned, stopping on a commercial to see what was playing. 

“Here and there, but usually no. I like cooking programs,” he offered. Crowley snorted. “I just hate having to keep up with a schedule. You miss one episode, and you could be completely lost!” 

“Poor angel; no one told you about TiVo.” Crowley took a sip of his drink. He watched Aziraphale preen discreetly, enjoying being teased, and then leaned in to kiss him, soft and chaste, just for the sake of doing it. 

He heard his own voice say: “_Piers, take my hand!_” He groaned, sitting up. 

“Is this one of your television programs?” Aziraphale looked between him and the screen with open excitement. “Oh, you’re on a spaceship!” 

“Space station, but fine.” Crowley buried the words in his drink.

“Oh, you’re wearing a crown! Are you the king of space?”

“_Edward!_” Piers called. “_You came back for me_.”

“Oh, dear, you’re not supposed to be Edward II, are you? In space, in that silver unitard?” 

“It’s a spacesuit, and I won an Emmy.”

“_I was a fool to allow you to be exiled_.” Crowley-on-screen said, and Piers threw himself into his arms without another word. Frantically, they kissed. Piers began to cup his cock through the thin, shiny material of the spacesuit. 

Aziraphale finished off his whiskey a little too fast. Either that or his shock made him cough a bit. “Are they allowed to show this on television?” he asked, looking concerned as screen-Crowley picked up the twinky Piers and slammed him against the space station’s pristine, white walls.

“Yeah, it just gets worse,” Crowley said, picking back up the remote. “We don’t have to watch this.”

“We do,” Aziraphale said gravely, nudging Crowley to pour him more. “I don’t recall this part of Edward II’s life, and I hate to miss out on such—oh, my, he, um, most not weigh a thing. You literally tossed him on the bed, darling.” 

“I could toss you around, if you like.” Crowley poured them both another drink, gaze on Aziraphale and not the screen. 

“You could not.” Aziraphale waved him off, taking the glass and immediately bringing it to his lips. “Oh, now I really don’t think you can show _that_ on the telly.” 

“They already did, but next time I’ll let the director know.”

“You’re going to make more shows like this?” Aziraphale finally tore his gaze away from the screen. And then cowed by his own forwardness, he sat back, murmuring: “I suppose I’ll have to start watching television.” 

Crowley sidled up next to him, feeling the heat of his body through his many layers. “TV’s no substitute for the real thing,” he said, warm against his ear.

“Did you practice that?” Gabriel asked. 

Crowley nearly threw his glass, and Aziraphale jumped, springing from the bed and putting the drink down. “Gabriel, I didn’t hear you come in. Through the door. Like people ought to.” 

“I was quiet,” Gabriel said, looking away from Crowley after another long moment. He caught Aziraphale’s chin and kissed him. “What are you two drinking?” he asked, nearly against Aziraphale’s lips. 

“Ahh,” Aziraphale breathed, throat working as Gabriel kept his face upturned. “Whiskey, dear.”

Gabriel looked at the TV. “Is Aziraphale showing off his pornography collection?” he asked. “Oh, wait, that’s you. So you’re _that_ kind of actor.” 

“I don’t have a—a—” Aziraphale sputtered, looking to Crowley so he would understand. Crowley flicked the TV off. 

“Can I pour you a drink, Gabe?” he asked. 

“Sure.” Gabriel smiled without warmth. “Aziraphale, is there an extra glass?” Aziraphale fetched, and Crowley watched with distaste. “Do you have ice?”

“Ice?” Aziraphale handed him the glass. “Oh, no, we weren’t—I’ll grab some.” He took the little ice bucket, slipping out without another word. 

“Gabriel, what are you doing here?” Crowley asked quickly, not remembering how far away the ice machine was. 

“I thought I’d spend the night.” Gabriel frowned and raised his eyebrows, like that should have been obvious. 

“No, I mean why did you get sent here? As an angel.” 

Gabriel turned his frown upside down, although the expression somehow stayed the same. “I’m not telling you that.” 

Split decision made, Crowley rushed: “I saw demons. Two. It can’t be a coincidence. So, why is everyone here?” 

“Aw.” Gabriel faked a touched look. “Are you trying to switch sides? My own little informant,” he cooed, and Crowley was barely able to flinch back in time when Gabriel reached toward his face. The smile dropped with his hand. “I hope you know that won’t get you any favors. You’re still a demon.” 

“That’s not why I’m asking,” and Crowley kept to himself whatever choice expletives he might have wanted to share. “I _need_ to know what’s going on here.” 

“There’s a US airbase just outside of Tadfield,” Gabriel said as Aziraphale walked back in.

“Oh my, you didn’t really ask, did you, Crowley?” Aziraphale hesitated in the doorway. 

“Come here,” Gabriel said, crooking his finger. Aziraphale stepped over. 

Crowley nearly cried out in his frustration. “You don’t have to do everything he says.” 

Gabriel took the ice bucket out of Aziraphale’s hands and went to fixing his own drink. Aziraphale looked unsure of what to say or whom to say it to. “I don’t do everything he says.” 

“And how does that usually go for you, sunshine?” Gabriel swirled his drink. Aziraphale might as well have been struck with how he pulled back. “Oh, come on,” Gabriel said, like he’d said it one hundred times before. “Have I ever hurt you?” Aziraphale didn’t answer. “I think Crowley needs to hear. Have I ever hurt you?”

“No.”

“Have you ever hurt yourself?” Gabriel asked. Crowley felt his stomach dropping, heat blaring behind his eyes. Aziraphale crossed to get his glass from the bedside table. “Go ahead; tell Crowley.” 

“I don’t think things through sometimes,” Aziraphale tried to explain. “I end up in trouble.” 

“You don’t have to—” Crowley couldn’t think of what he should possibly say. 

“He likes doing what I say.” Gabriel leaned against the little table. “He’s always happier for it, aren’t you? A soldier needs orders, after all.” 

“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale mumbled into his whiskey glass.

“Come kiss me, Aziraphale,” Gabriel said, putting his glass to the side. “Crowley, why don’t you sit on the bed. We can make a game of it tonight. Show you how much better it is for Aziraphale when he has someone in charge.” 

Aziraphale flashed his eyes at Crowley to check if he was all right, and Crowley figured he could play the game for himself. He thought he might see if he could get Aziraphale to stop without saying stop. If he could, maybe Crowley could trust him. If not—he didn’t want to think about if not. 

Crowley sat on the bed, and Aziraphale went to kiss his husband, who licked into his mouth once and then said: “Down.” 

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale said, glancing back at Crowley. 

“Come on, it’s for fun. On your knees, sweetheart.” Aziraphale went, and Gabriel picked his drink back up. He took a sip. “Do I need to explain this part to you?” he asked when Aziraphale just looked up at him. 

“Don’t talk to him like that,” Crowley hoarsed out, watching Aziraphale undo Gabriel’s belt, open up his slacks. 

“It’s fine. He’s just teasing. Plus,” Aziraphale worked his slacks down to his mid-thigh, and Gabriel hadn’t worn underwear _again_. “I told you, I like this,” he breathed, taking Gabriel’s heavy cock in hand and pumping it.

From the bed, Crowley could see how Aziraphale leaned in, hands coming up to hold Gabriel’s hips. Gabriel drank, curling a fist in Aziraphale’s hair as he brought his mouth to its task. Catching Crowley’s eye, he winked. Crowley nearly shattered the glass in his hand, so he put it to the side. 

“When I come, Aziraphale,” Gabriel said, tugging his curls to get his attention. Aziraphale hummed, and Gabriel said: “I don’t want you to swallow.” Aziraphale made another sound, questioning, which must have felt nice because Gabriel hissed and fucked his hips forward once. “I want you to hold it in your mouth,” he explained, voice tighter as Aziraphale choked around him, trying to keep up. “You’ll do that for me. It’s not hard. Just keep it in your mouth.” 

Crowley wasn’t sure where this was going, but he planned to start really objecting as soon as he could make eye contact with Aziraphale. Gabriel was pretty quiet, but he still was expressive enough to show that the game was having an effect on him. His jaw was tense, his knuckles nearly white where he was gripping Aziraphale’s hair. He’d looked away from Crowley, instead focused entirely on Aziraphale, drinking in the sight of him. Crowley could imagine it, having seen his own version just earlier: the stretched red lips, the light flush. 

It didn't take long for Gabriel to come, but Crowley couldn't bring himself to mock him over it. It felt like a mercy, not having to watch them together like that any longer. 

“Hold it,” Gabriel said again, and Aziraphale nodded, already tucking Gabriel’s cock away and refastening his slacks. Outside of the slightest blush, maybe faster breathing, Gabriel looked completely the same. He took Aziraphale's hands and helped him onto his feet. “How does it taste?” 

Aziraphale made a low sound, as he was unable to answer.

“What was that?” Gabriel said, turning his ear. Crowley finally caught a glimpse of Aziraphale’s face, and he looked red and sort of wobbly over being teased like that. Something in Crowley’s chest, and lower in his stomach, panged at that. 

“Don’t be cruel,” Crowley said, having chosen the word carefully. Gabriel sent him a look. “You’re not being fair,” he explained, maintaining eye contact, not allowing himself to be moved on this issue.

“Fair?” Gabriel repeated. “Sunshine, I think he’s jealous. Why don’t you go share with him?” And he turned Aziraphale about and gave his backside a nudge. Aziraphale nearly tripped over his own feet.

Blood rushing so fast that Crowley almost felt dizzy, he reached out to take Aziraphale by the hand, guiding him over, soaking in the look of blearly arousal, his full and spit-shiny mouth. Aziraphale leaned in to kiss him.

“Not like that.” Gabriel said, startling them both. “Spit it in his mouth.” 

Rationally, Crowley knew that this was a perfect place for him to put up his show of reticence, to pale his face and look uncomfortable. But as Aziraphale was checking his face for just that look, he couldn’t help but groan. He just had to open his mouth. The only option was for him to stick out his tongue. 

Aziraphale straightened up, leaned over, parting his lips. He didn’t so much spit as let the sticky mixture of come and saliva drip from his own tongue into Crowley’s mouth. Crowley’s legs spread so Aziraphale could shuffle between them. Aziraphale placed his hands on Crowley’s shoulders to steady them both. As Crowley swallowed, Aziraphale watched, enraptured, and then traced Crowley’s lower lip with his thumb. 

“Okay?” he asked, so Crowley nodded, not sure he could speak with the taste so heavy on his tongue and Aziraphale filling up all of his senses and then some. And the bastard had to ruin it, the overwhelming rush of trust and devotion, by turning back to Gabriel. 

“Do you want to kiss him?” Gabriel asked. Crowley wasn’t sure who he was asking, still a little hazy between the ears.

“Very much,” Aziraphale murmured, looking back at Crowley, at his lips. 

“I want you to hit him on the face,” Gabriel said, and Crowley moaned, heat blaring so hard and fast he couldn’t comprehend anything for a second. 

“Oh, but—” Aziraphale said, pulling away. 

Crowley caught his wrist. “You can hit me, if you don’t mind it. You don’t have to, but you can.” He’d stop the next thing, he would. He just wasn’t sure he’d get the chance for something like this again. 

“See, Crowley’s fine with it,” Gabriel said. “I think you'd like it.”

So Aziraphale pulled his hand back and clapped it against Crowley’s cheek, so light, exceedingly careful. Crowley still moaned, too hypersensitive to not. 

“Do it again harder,” Gabriel said. 

Aziraphale exhaled, whiny and worried. He tapped against Crowley’s cheek, with barely more force than before. 

“Harder,” Crowley begged. He was rewarded with a proper smack, the sting of it making Crowley gasp and shudder. When he opened his eyes, Aziraphale was panting, hand trembling, pressed against his own mouth in shock. Crowley wanted to kiss that hand. Distantly, he could hear Gabriel laughing. 

“What a pair you two are!” He poured himself another whiskey and sat down on the plush dining chair, shifted so he had a better vantage point. “Aziraphale, do you want to kiss him or hit him again?” 

“I don’t know,” Aziraphale said, clearly uncertain which was correct. 

“What do you want to do?” 

Aziraphale didn’t want to say. Crowley wanted him to say. His hands itched, wanting to help him say. “I want—oh. I want him to touch me.” 

“Where?” Gabriel asked, not missing a beat.

“My—my—oh—” Aziraphale’s legs were practically shaking with how he wanted it. 

“Yoru cunt?” Crowley said for him.

“Hey,” Gabriel warned. “He’s supposed to say it.” 

But it had helped, and Aziraphale nodded. “My cunt. I want him to touch my cunt.” 

“Fine,” Gabriel sighed. “Would you mind terribly touching his cunt, Crowley?”

Crowley couldn’t possibly pretend to mind, especially when Aziraphale looked shy about it, like he was worried what Crowley thought, like Crowley hadn’t eaten him out twice that day. “I want to do that,” Crowley said, to Aziraphale. 

“Why don’t you open his pants and touch it? Tell him how wet you are, Aziraphale.”

“I’m so wet,” Aziraphale breathed, closing his eyes. Crowley was unbuttoning his trousers, and Aziraphale was grabbing his shoulder again as an anchor, and Crowley curled his hand under his waistband. 

Touching it, looking at Aziraphale while he touched it, was better than anything Crowley could think of in that moment. Aziraphale had become so slick, so wickedly hot there, and he spread around Crowley’s fingers so easily. The naked adoration on his face, the flutter of his eyelashes: it all made Crowley dip in further, press his thumb against his clit and curl in his fingers. 

“Tell him how it feels,” Gabriel said, but Crowley wasn’t listening to him, not really. He was feeling Aziraphale’s inner walls, stroking him from the inside, supporting him while he quivered on his feet. 

“It feels wonderful,” Aziraphale said, soft and low. Crowley pretended it was just for him, and he smiled up at him. It felt wonderful for him too.

“Do you want him to make you come?” 

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley wrapped his other arm around his waist, pulling him closer. 

“What do you think about him?” 

“I think you’re magnificent,” Aziraphale said, voice pitching as Crowley kept looking at him. “I think you’re a miracle.” And that felt so very wrong to hear, but made something in Crowley’s brain short out pleasantly. He pressed his face into Aziraphale’s soft chest, fucking him sweetly, holding him tight.

“Then why did you hit him earlier?” Gabriel asked, tone even but still jolting Aziraphale out of his haze. Crowley kept his hand going, kept Aziraphale close to him. _Look at me_, he wanted to say. _Don’t look at him_.

“You told me to,” Aziraphale said, pulling away from Crowley a little to look at his husband. “And he—” he choked, looking back down.

“Wanted it,” Crowley murmured, gazing up at him, wanting his warmth back. “I wanted it. It was great.” 

“I think you did it because you know he’s bad, deep down.” Gabriel said lightly. “I think you should tell him he’s a wicked, awful thing.” 

Crowley’s hand stilled, discomfort shooting in. He should have seen this coming, although he wasn’t sure how. Aziraphale stiffened as well. 

“But he’s not.” Aziraphale looked between them.

“I think he is. What do you think, Crowley?” Gabriel leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs. 

“I think that’s enough, dear,” Azirapahle said finally to Crowley, who pulled his hand back. He stood up from the bed, feeling sick to his stomach. 

“Aw, come on, you two! It’s just a game. All right, Crowley. How about I have him call you a perfect little angel. Would you like that?” 

Crowley’s head spun, and he heard a faint: “Gabriel, stop, you’re being awful for no reason.” 

“Crowley, don’t go!” Gabriel called after him as he scooped up his shoes and jacket, stumbling to the door. “The fun’s just sssstarting.”

“Crowley, darling,” Aziraphale said, trying to catch his attention before he escaped out the door. 

“It’s getting late, angel, and I should look over the script.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, and Crowley didn’t dare glance at him, worried his expression would be as devastated as his voice. “My dear Crowley, I’m so sorry. I had no idea—”

“It’s not you, angel. Sorry,” he said, opening the door. “I just got to go.” 

“Of course.” he sounded resigned. Crowley peeked up. Aziraphale looked blank. Unsurprised, which hurt in its own way. Staying was a lot to fucking ask of him, and Crowley almost said it right there. 

Instead, he offered Aziraphale a smile. He thought about kissing him but didn’t. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he promised. “For breakfast.” 

A brush of something warmer past over Aziraphale’s face. “My treat.”

Crowley nodded. It was his turn anyway. He left then and almost ran away.

He had left his sunglasses and his whiskey behind, but he decided he didn’t care because he could at least breathe in his own room, the weight of it all readjusted to something manageable. 

He wasn’t sure what he’d learned from any of it. He couldn’t remember what was the point.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always many thanks to [hanggracefully](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hanggracefully) and [shabnam_e_maghz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shabnam_e_maghz/pseuds/shabnam_e_maghz)

(Friday)

Gabriel often worked between rounds, either sitting naked at his desk or bringing his paperwork into their bed. 

At first, Aziraphale hadn’t liked it. It made him wonder if Gabriel had started to think about progress reports and increasing productivity through intuitive workflow while inside of him. But Aziraphale had learned that Gabriel liked his warmth and the weight of him tucked up against his side, and so Aziraphale could often lay his head on Gabriel’s chest and skim whatever briefs he was reviewing. Gabriel even knew he was doing it, and he let him because Aziraphale was calm when he read, and, with the reports, Gabriel knew he wasn’t getting exposed to anything transgressive or upsetting. 

The papers were mostly boring, detailing incidences of minor infractures and the swift and thorough disciplinary action taken, or which numbers were up and which had dropped and whether that was good or bad. It was still nice to know what was going on. Aziraphale had been incommunicado since being removed from his post. 

It wasn’t between rounds that night, because Aziraphale had firmly declined after Crowley left. Gabriel wasn’t naked, just stripped down to his undershirt, his cock laying soft against his thigh. Aziraphale, who was down to his underthings as well, curled under his arm. These reports were a little different, offering full inventories of Heaven’s soldiers and equipment and projected outcomes for conflict with the adversary.

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale hummed, early in the morning when Gabriel had gotten to the fifth war-related document. “There isn’t something big going on, is there?” 

“Michael does a yearly report on the state of the army,” Gabriel said, and Aziraphale knew as much, although he supposed he’d never seen one of these reports. 

“You would tell me if something were happening, right?” 

Gabriel’s cheek moved against the top of his head; he was smiling. He kissed his curls. It wasn’t an answer. 

“Gabriel.” Aziraphale wiggled to look at him. 

Sighing, Gabriel put the papers aside. He poked his finger against Aziraphale’s forehead, a sharp jab which only hurt a little. “You’re worrying too much again.” His hand moved, brushing the curls that framed his face. “Wouldn’t I tell you if there was something to worry about?” 

Aziraphale wasn’t sure, because he and Gabriel often defined problems differently. He twitched the side of his mouth, and Gabriel gentled him back against his side. “Why don’t you tell me about the movie you’re helping with?” Like this, Gabriel smelled so comforting, felt so warm and solid, and Aziraphale was happy to forget the silly reports. 

“It’s going well,” he hummed, tentatively placing his hand atop Gabriel’s chest, curling against the white cotton undershirt. “It’s still mostly early stages. They filmed some tests yesterday. Oh, you’ll find this funny: the cameraman said he thought I could be an actor.”

Gabriel laughed. “Why?” 

“Oh, I suspect he was just being kind. I’m no Crowley,” he tacked on, and then kicked himself. It was a stupid thing to say, after last night. Although, maybe they should talk about it. Aziraphale knew he would have to bring it up with Crowley and he didn’t quite know what to say, other than that it had been a mistake, a terrible game, and that Aziraphale should have known better. He’d played his fair share of games over the years and could only think of one or two that were any fun when not everyone knew the rules. 

“Crowley’s funny looking himself,” Gabriel said. Aziraphale felt his blood heat and didn’t quite know why. Gabriel had to be lying, or teasing, because Crowley was plainly and simply beautiful. “Don’t see why you’re so stuck on him. He’s more squeamish than I would have thought. For an _actor_.” 

“You were being mean,” Aziraphale told him. “We went too far.” 

“He’s had worse,” Gabriel said back, and then pressed a kiss to the top of Aziraphale’s head. “Let’s not fight about it,” he said, before Aziraphale could respond. “Tell me more about the movie.” 

“There’s not much more to say,” he sniffed. He didn’t mean to be a louse, but he still felt louse-ish about the whole ordeal and was no closer to knowing how he could keep Crowley’s friendship at breakfast.

Gabriel didn’t seem to mind, although if Aziraphale kept his melancholy up for too long, there might have been a problem. “Why don’t you tell me about the story? You said it’s one of yours?”

“Yes.”

“When you were Issac File.”

“Ezra Fell.” Aziraphale sighed. “It’s _The Way Home_. I told you about it while I was writing it.” 

“Oh, but you know how you were like then,” Gabriel said gently, smiling like he felt bad that he had to remind him. “All twitchy. Almost everything you said sounded a little crazy, until you had a drink in you to level out.” 

“I wasn’t that bad.” Aziraphale was certain he hadn’t been that bad, but then there was also the near nonsensical digressions in _The Way Back_, his long lost treatise on how cocaine could be used to battle slothfulness and gluttony, and some truly embarrassing letters to various writers he admired. “You’re the one who encouraged me to try it.”

This was an old argument, and one that Gabriel had already declared himself the victor of. “I told you to try it, not get a habit. You had just been so despondent. It was depressing.” 

“Because you’d recommended opium before that!” 

“And why did I recommend that?” Gabriel asked. “How was I supposed to know that your _nervous disposition_ wasn’t just your corporation malfunctioning?” It made Aziraphale all the more angry that Gabriel sounded so calm over it. Reopening old wounds only ever hurt one person. “You’re the only angel I’ve met that winds themselves in circles like this.” 

Fond. He sounded fond. The winding was cute to him, like a dog getting comfortable on its master’s bed, like children at a maypole. Aziraphale was a small thing on the edge of something much larger, always about to tumble into it. Gabriel liked to think of himself as the weight at his back, keeping him from being blown off his feet.

“You’re doing it even now,” Gabriel said, and he kissed Aziraphale’s forehead. “Stop, in there,” he murmured, lips pressed there still. His broad arms were around him, cradling him, and Aziraphale so badly wanted to relax. “Let me make love to you,” Gabriel hummed, pulling back to look him in the eye. 

“I’m still cross with you.” Aziraphale was going to let him anyway. 

“I’ll make it up to you.” Gabriel trailed kisses down his face, over his eyelid, onto his cheek, under his chin. His breath was warm against his lips. “I’ll take you out tonight, buy you dinner.” 

“No, thank you.” 

Gabriel rumbled a laugh against him. He was moving, practically covering Aziraphale now, a hand curving around to grope his back. “Come on, sunshine.” 

Aziraphale huffed. “I want to go the the Italian place in Oxford. Everyone else got to go, and I’ve been curious.” Slowly, he started to part his legs and lift his hips so Gabriel could ease his drawers off. “So, you’ll take me because it’s out of the way. At 7:00.”

“At 8,” Gabriel said, taking off his own shirt next. “I do have to work.” Aziraphale promptly closed his legs and started to move away. Gabriel got a hand on his hip. “All right, I’ll meet you there at 7.” He yanked off Aziraphale’s shirt and pushed him onto his back. It was enough of a concession that Aziraphale didn’t push their going together.

Without much preamble, Gabriel hitched one of Aziraphale’s legs up, hand hooking under his knee, and he seated himself inside. Aziraphale curled his toes and closed his eyes.

* * *

Gabriel stepped out before dawn, leaving Aziraphale nicely achey. He thought he might stay in bed for a while longer but checked the clock. He’d promised Crowley breakfast.

He knocked on his door and got no response. Either sleeping or ignoring him, Crowley would just have to miss out on the nice morning air and whatever surprise the baker’s niece had whipped up. Of course, Aziraphale would bring the surprise back to him but the reveal of it would be all wrong. 

There was a strange burning smell on the way to the cafe, carried by the breeze. It made his skin prickle in a way he’d nearly forgotten while in the beloved township of Tadfield. But when he paused to look, there was nothing particularly evil to be found.

Aziraphale had a surprise of his own when he walked into the cafe bakery and saw Crowley had beaten him there and was already seated at their table with a coffee. Aziraphale wished Crowley hadn’t immediately noticed him because it would have given him a moment to decide what sort of expression was most appropriate for their meeting this morning. As it was, Crowley’s hardset mouth, his delicate hands tight around the mug: it all made Aziraphale choke with anxiety. 

“Hello,” he said, walking up, unsure if he should sit or just order.

“There was a mess up with your tea,” Crowley said in lieu of a greeting. “They’re bringing a new one out.” 

“Oh, but…” Aziraphale wrung his hands, looking at the noticeably empty counter. “It was supposed to be my turn to pay.” 

Crowley stretched out some, forcibly loosening himself into a sprawl as the niece came out with a teapot and mug. “I didn’t pick out the pastries. You can get those.”

Aziraphale got a slice of coffee cake and a spinach, feta, and pine nut quiche. He was certain he could get Crowley to eat one of those, as they were nothing too extravagant and Crowley didn’t seem to have the palate for much of anything, outside of drink. As the baker warmed those, Aziraphale delicately sat at the table.

When Crowley simply watched him, he cleared his throat. “I fear the first thing I do each morning is apologize to you. You must be getting entirely sick of me, trying to explain myself. But,” he swallowed, grateful to have a hot mug to clasp between his hands. “I am sorry.” 

Crowley shrugged. “I know you’re sorry.”

“I had no idea Gabriel was going to say that,” Aziraphale tried to assure him. “You must know that I know you aren’t—that you aren’t _wicked_.” He lowered his voice, so as to not startle anyone.

“That’s the problem.” Crowley drummed his hand on the table, “I am wicked. Exceedingly happy about it too.” 

“Oh, but that can’t be.” 

“I’m an awful, wicked thing,” Crowley said over him. “I just didn’t want you to find out like this.” 

“But…” Aziraphale was confused. _But you’re mine_ he wanted to remind him, although he knew full well that the devotion yesterday had only been in jest. Rationally, he knew that. “You’re so very kind to me. And to Young Warlock. And—”

Crowley was shifting uncomfortably in his seat, looking halfway to angry. “Why do you think I do all of that? Not to be kind. Not to be _nice_. I do it for _me_, because _I_ was to, because it feels good or makes my life easier.”

“Oh, you are wicked. Wickedly obstinate!” Luckily, the baker’s niece brought them out the warmed pastries just as Crowley’s tight jaw was starting to unwind. “Eat up, or you won’t have any energy for all your vile misdeeds.” 

They ended up splitting the two, which looked like Crowley taking about one and a half bites and then surrendering the rest to Aziraphale. How good of you, Aziraphle could have said but thought it might not go over well. Still, he did his best to convey the feeling through a look, which caused Crowley to promptly get up and order another coffee. There and back, his ears were tinged red.

* * *

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Ezzy was saying to an unkempt older man as they walked in. “You’re not supposed to be here for another week.” 

“Oh my!” Aziraphale often delighted in other people’s disorder as long as no one was seriously injured. He was feeling relaxed now that he and Crowley were firmly friends again and had swapped handjobs in the car, parked just by the road into the woods. Crowley smiled too, a soft jerk of his mouth, and Aziraphale’s insides went fuzzy.

“Mrs. Volk,” the scraggly man said, one hand brandishing a contract, the other pointing at different lines. “This is your signature, saying we’re on location to start filming today.”

“Mara,” Ezzy called, and her little cadet hopped up. “When does our schedule have Pulsifer Practical coming on?” 

“Next week,” Mara said dutifully after checking. 

“Our calendar said that too,” a young man with glasses and no other distinctive features piped. The scraggle of a man, who Aziraphale could tell by his irritated adoration was a relative of the young and average man, groaned. “Maybe the contract just got it wrong.”

“The contract can’t be wrong, boy. A contract can’t be wrong!” he boomed.

“Oh, wicked!” Warlock called as soon as he came in, dashing over to the stacked crates, each with a stamped **Pulsifer Practical** on the side. “It’s like you were saying last night,” he shouted over his shoulder to Adam, “That we should get to practice with the puppets and all!” 

“How long does the contract say you’ll stay?” Ezzy asked, signalling Mara to her side.

“Until Thursday next,” said the old man.

“And is that negotiable?” 

“Only in the case of flood, fire, nuclear war, or Act of God.” Scraggle Pulsifer smiled, wide and toothy. 

“Pray for nuclear war,” Ezzy said to Mara, “And bring me the shoot schedule.” 

“I’m taking a long lunch to call my manager!” Crowley shouted over his shoulder, already turning to leave. He grabbed Aziraphale’s hand, pulling him along. “I’m taking Aziraphale with me!” 

“We’re starting to film tomorrow,” Ezzy called after him. “Check your email for the new schedule!” 

“Oh, but they might need me,” Aziraphale worried.

“I need you more,” Crowley said as they exited the building, making Aziraphale break into a full body flush. 

“Oh, well…” Aziraphale thought about taking him in the backseat of his car, sitting on his lap and rabbit-fucking in short thrusts so his head wouldn’t hit the roof, Or maybe going back to the hotel, ordering room service and kissing and watching television for the whole day. Or maybe the woods. They could picnic in the woods, and then Crowley could lay him back on the blanket. 

“I thought I saw some people I know,” Crowley went on, walking them at a quick pace to the car. “Yesterday. I don’t know how to get in contact with them, except the traditional way, and they haven’t responded. I was hoping you might help me look around.” 

“Oh.” Aziraphale couldn’t keep his tone from going flat. He supposed Crowley was likely still satisfied from their mutual masturbation earlier, and he couldn’t be expected to be ready so soon. At least Gabriel was good for one thing, when he was around. “Are they friends of yours? Can’t you ring them on your mobile?” 

“Not friends,” he said as they got in. “They’re my, uhh, family. Extended. Many times removed. So, they’re not locals, and they’re very bad news.” He started the car and pulled out, directing them toward the main main street. “I’m concerned what their being here might mean.” 

“Are you worried for your safety?” Of course Crowley didn’t know that being devoted to Aziraphale meant full Heavenly protection, and _of course_ Aziraphale knew, he _knew_, that the devotion wasn’t serious, but he still couldn’t allow anything to harm Crowley. It just wouldn’t be right, and he wouldn’t have forgiven himself. 

Crowley groaned. “No, it’s not that. It’s just, with the _military_ here and my acquaintances here, I’m worried. So I want to find them and see what their plan is. I tried, er, texting them this morning, but they haven’t responded.” 

“They could still be asleep,” Aziraphale offered. “Perhaps a late night.” He felt himself getting a little snappish, not seeing why it mattered, not when they were together, and they had time to do nothing, and the air was so sweet.

“I don’t think so,” and Crowley didn’t say more. 

“But,” Aziraphale huffed, “You don’t even know where to look for them!” 

“I have a few ideas.” Crowley was driving fast through the main square. Aziraphale thought about slowing the car down again just to spite him, but it had been harder to do than he expected. He didn’t want to exhaust himself just because he didn’t know how to properly sabotage an automobile. 

So, he fidgeted, realizing he wasn’t about to get lunch _or_ sex. He picked at one of his nails. “What do they look like?” 

“Trouble,” Crowley said. “Shady. Lurky.” 

“That’s hardly helpful.” Aziraphale pointedly stared at him. “_You_ look like trouble.” 

In completely disregard to road safety, Crowley looked back at him, the corner of his mouth pulling. “With a capital T?” 

“Oh, you.” Aziraphale instead looked for trouble out the window. “Is that them?” he asked, pointing at the angry man with the perfectly round dachshund. “Magnificently lurky, those two.”

“More shady than that, but good start,” Crowley said. Aziraphale couldn’t help but preen, even if he knew they were only joking around. They turned off onto a dirt road, moving a ways out of Tadfield proper.

* * *

“A cemetary, Crowley?” Aziraphale hadn’t quite believed when they pulled up. He didn’t have any problems with graveyards, but it would never be his first choice when looking for people. “Who _are_ these people?” 

“Uhh,” Crowley thought, scanning the mostly empty cemetery. “Goths.” 

“Goths?” Aziraphale squinted. 

“Not the nomads. Spooky-types. Wear lots of black. Into dark, nasty, squirmy things for fun, like staying in graveyards.” 

“Wonderful. And we _want_ to find them?” Aziraphale did look as well and followed when Crowley started on.

“I told you,” Crowley grouched.

“Yes, yes, you told me. I still don’t understand it, when we could be doing anything else. So many other, better things. What’s so terrible about these people that they’re spoiling our morning?” 

Crowley looked at him sharply, clearly picking his words as they stopped by a headstone. Aziraphale read it as he waited: **Mary Mitchum 1898-1985 Beloved Wife**. Good for her, he thought, and Crowley finally spoke. “I don’t think I can say right now, but I need you to trust me that this is important.” 

Silly men, and their silly secrets, and their entirely silly codes and rules and subterfuge. They weren’t in a spy story. Aziraphale wasn’t a detective, nor was Crowley as far as he knew. Still, it was thrilling, in a way. 

He smiled, a little, trying to be a better sport. He started walking again, deeper into the grounds. “All right, dear boy. I’ll go along with it. But you really must tell me what it is that I’m looking for. At least how many people.” 

“It’s two,” Crowley said, and then hesitantly he added: “Men.” 

“You aren’t sure?” Aziraphale asked, amused. “That’s all right. Any other characteristics I should be on the lookout for?”

Crowley was quiet again, and so Aziraphale had to slow his stroll and look back at him. “They might smell, to you.”

“I doubt I’ll be getting so close to them!” Aziraphale laughed. 

“It’s strong,” he explained. “It should be hard to miss. They’ll smell like, er… fire. Both of them.”

“Like you and your father?” The words were out before Azirapahle really considered them, how strange they might be. 

Crowley looked embarrassed, and Aziraphale couldn’t have felt more guilty. They started on again, checking behind the headstones. “Yes, they’ll smell like that.” 

When they’d checked each row, they went back to the car. Crowley’s serious mood was starting to affect Aziraphale, and he was still feeling very foolish for bringing up his father. “Where to next?” he asked, trying to sound chipper about it. 

“There’s an old convent type thing up the road a bit more. They might be there.” They got in and took off again.

“Religious?” Aziraphale asked, a little nervous about the answer. 

“In a way.”

* * *

It wasn’t a convent anymore, but some sort of corporate retreat. Gabriel would have loved it, and even Aziraphale couldn't help but be charmed—although that might have been the warm sun and fresh air in the empty courtyard. 

“Welcome!” a sharp-looking woman said as she walked to meet them, her hand extended. She was navigating to the middle of them, clearly expecting whichever of them was in charge to take over. Aziraphale took her hand because Crowley didn’t seem at all moved to exchange the gesture. “I’m the director her, Mary Hodges. You must be Bierson International?” she asked, smiling like she already knew.

“Oh!” Aziraphale paled, looking to Crowley for help. “No.”

“There used to be a convent here,” Crowley said. “What happened to it?”

“Oh, that was so long ago!” Ms. Hodges laughed. Aziraphale smiled along, because she seemed to invite that. “Are you dark tourists?” 

“Dark tourists?” Aziraphale asked. 

“Yes,” Crowley said. “I’m looking for two other dark tourists—”

“I thought you said they were goths!”

“They can be both,” Crowley said quickly. “I’m looking for Hastur and Ligur. Do you know them?”

Ms. Hodges’s smile dropped. She swallowed. “What is your name?” She looked between the two of them. 

Crowley stepped closer, into her space. “You have seen them.”

“No,” she said adamantly, and Aziraphale could tell she wasn’t lying so he hoped Crowley got that as well. “No, not for years. Are they… are they here?” 

“Are they here?” Crowley parroted. 

“All right, well, thank you so much, Ms. Hodges!” Aziraphale said, grabbing Crowley’s arm and trying to pull him away. “Crowley, let’s go. They’re not here.” 

“Have they returned?” she asked in earnest, looking some combination of terrified and ecstatic. 

“Crowley, please,” Aziraphale begged, and finally was allowed to drag them both away. Ms. Hodges didn’t follow them, and Aziraphale didn’t bother to look back over his shoulder, although Crowley did. “Let’s take a break,” he said once they were almost to the car. “Hm? Don’t you want a spot of lunch? You hardly had any breakfast.”

Crowley jerked his arm away and planted himself just outside the car. Aziraphale felt a little hurt by that, but he realized he might have been holding too tight. “Has Gabriel really told you _nothing_ about what he’s doing here?”

“No, of course not!” Aziraphale fiddled with his wedding band, as if it might summon Gabriel so he could tell him what to say.

“_Of course not_.” Crowley sounded so angry, and Aziraphale winced. “Aren’t you worried what might be going on?” 

“Gabriel would tell me if some sort of—military action was taking place.” Aziraphale approached slowly so as not to startle him. “Darling, Crowley, why is it bothering you like this?” 

“Because—” Crowley shouted and then stopped himself. He took a deep breath and shoved his fists in his pockets. “Because I’m hungry,” he said, and Aziraphale could tell that wasn’t the case but wouldn’t have dreamed of saying so. “Let me buy you lunch.”

* * *

“We’re not too far from that Italian place,” Crowley said once they were headed toward the city. “Everyone else seemed to like it.” 

Aziraphale’s stomach may have turned, but he couldn’t think about why he felt guilty over saying no. “Gabriel is taking me tonight.” 

“Hm.” Crowley didn’t react, except his knuckles were white as he gripped the steering wheel. “I’m sure that’ll be loads of fun for you both.”

“If you’re trying to be horrible, stop,” Aziraphale said. 

“Have you _ever_ said that to Gabriel?” and it was so nasty, so angry. Aziraphale almost didn’t understand it. 

“You can let me out on the side. I’ll call a cab.” 

“I didn’t mean it,” Crowley said, but he had, and he sounded like he still did but was trying hard not to. “I’m upset. Not at you.”

“I’ve antagonized you,” Aziraphale realized, his chest seizing. He tried to remember back, to retrace what he’d said. 

“No, you’ve been perfectly compliant,” he sneered. Aziraphale didn’t want to fight, not with Crowley, not when things with Crowley were supposed to be better and sweeter and easier. Crowley groaned, aggravated. _He hates me_, Azirapahle thought wildly. Crowley couldn’t stand him. Crowley had had enough. 

He felt his hands shaking. He wanted to snap himself out of the car, back to his hotel room. Or better yet, back to his home in Sonoma with its small, cosy corners and his books and the linen-fresh scent. The car smelled like smoke, like Crowley, warm and spiced and overwhelmingly appealing, and he needed to be out of it.

“Aziraphale,” he heard Crowley say beside him. “I’m going to pull over, but please don’t run off.”

They were on the city street, having found a parking space even though it was lunch hour and therefore busy. Aziraphale got out of the car but stayed put, taking a slow breath and then another. He ignored the passing people in favor of looking at the storefronts: a boutique, a print shop, a Chinese buffet. Crowley came around the car to stand next to him. Aziraphale glanced at him, saw that his lips were pressed tight, and looked back at the storefronts. 

“Must have gotten warm in the car,” he said. “It’s hot today.”

“Right.” Crowley’s voice was strained. “Do you want to go in there?” he pointed at the buffet. Aziraphale shook his head. He wanted to sit, and he wanted someone to wait on him, and, oh, how wretched he was for wanting so selfishly.

“Unless you’d like to,” he hedged.

“Nah.” Crowley turned, scanning the rest of the street. “What about sushi? You like sushi?”

“Do you like sushi?” Aziraphale asked, looking at him again. Crowley’s shoulders were loose, his mouth parted and soft. 

“I like sake,” he said. 

“Oh, but—” He was about to say it was early, but a little drink couldn’t hurt. “All right.” 

Inside, they were seated in the mostly empty restaurant. Crowley left the ordering to Aziraphale, which was fine. He let Aziraphale pour for him when the sake came and then returned the gesture. The formality did something good for Aziraphale’s heart, helping some of the tightness in his back uncurl. 

“Are you sure you saw them?” Aziraphale asked as Crowley drank. He fiddled with his own cup. “They might not even be here.”

“Yes, I’m sure.” Crowley said it with finality, so Aziraphale shut up. 

He finally drank, the warmth helping him steady himself. “I won’t apologize for going out with my own husband.” 

“Why would you?” Crowley asked, so flippant Aziraphale felt all the more stressed. “I’m not angry about that.” 

“Right,” Aziraphale exhaled. “Because it would be unreasonable for you to care when we’ve only just met.” Crowley leveled a look at him that burned even with his sunglasses still on. “I’m lucky to have Gabriel. I—love him.” 

“I think you want that to be true.”

“What do you know about what I want?” Aziraphale asked lightly, without any heat, as the sashimi was brought out. Crowley waited for their waiter to leave, Aziraphale saying a soft thank you, almost completely relaxing away from the moment at the sight of such a carefully, beautifully prepared dish. 

“I think you’d be very happy if I nabbed you up and you didn’t have to think about it.” Crowley finally said, pulling Aziraphale back with his low voice. “I know you want things to be simple, like that. And I think it’s lucky for both of us that I’d never do that to you.” 

“I can’t even begin to imagine what you mean by any of that,” Aziraphale postured, picking up his chopsticks. 

“My mistake,” Crowley said. “I’m glad you love him, then. I’m glad you’re happy.” 

What a horrible, vile, _wicked_ thing to say. And all Aziraphale was allowed to do was nod and smile, and drink and eat. He could hardly taste anything.

* * *

Aziraphale insisted that Crowley continue his search alone. He wanted to be useful to Ms. Volk, who was his employer after all, and he seemed to be more of a burden to Crowley than anything else. Crowley agreed to drop him off, but he seemed down over it and had spent the rest of their lunch trying to inch back on what he’d said. It was for the best to separate; they’d been in each other’s pockets so much, and they were due for a break. 

Back at the rehearsal space, the chaos had gotten moderately more organized. Mara was working through a list, confirming early arrivals for different actors. Volk, still severe but no longer with that mad tinge, was helping her crew and the men from Pulsifer Practical unload and sort the different set pieces and puppets.

“Ms. Volk,” Aziraphale said, once he’d made eye contact with her and was certain he wasn’t interrupting. “Is there anything I can do?” 

She sighed and looked around. The space was quickly filling up, more boxes having been brought in since Aziraphale and Crowley’s departure. “If it’s no trouble, would you mind talking to Newton and having him show you The Giant Slug. I think he’s having trouble.” 

“Certainly!” Aziraphale said, relieved beyond words to be a help. “Newton is?”

“The nephew,” Ms. Volk said, and then further clarified: “The normal-looking one.” 

“Ah.” Aziraphale knew exactly which that was and went over to him. Indeed, the young man was sweating over the waxy, tan exterior of a fake slug. The slug, while realistic in many other ways, came up to Newton’s shoulders, its optical tentacles reaching up even higher. Newton had the controls in hand, although they seemed to be smoking. Aziraphale gave Ms. Volk a reassuring thumbs up and went over to him.

Newton saw his approach and looked embarrassed. “You see,” he started before Aziraphale could say hello, “We never work with animatronics. Sometimes we’ll make the outsides, but the insides go to another company, or one of our contractors. We can make them look good, but getting them to run on their own: never something we’ve been much good at.” 

“May I see it?” Aziraphale put out his hand, and the young man gave him the console. Of course, Aziraphale had no idea what to do with the device, but in his hands it knew to run properly at the very least. The remote stopped smoking and, without touching any of the knobs, Aziraphale got the slug to surge forward, to move its foot and head, wave its feelers. “My! What a darling thing!” 

“How did you do that?” Newton gawped.

“Here you are, young man,” Aziraphale said with a smile and a wink. He handed the control back. “It should work perfectly for you now!”

The second it was firmly in Newton’s hands, the device sparked so terribly that Newton jumped back and dropped it on the ground, shattering the remote apart. 

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale said, unsure how to fix it without causing a scene. He was more than a little worried what it meant for his blessing. The scraggly uncle was already coming over. 

“Newt!” he shouted. “I told you not to touch that.” 

“Tomas is taking his lunch, and we have to have everything checked and inventoried by 5:00.”

The scraggle’s disgruntlement was significantly less charming when so close. He gestured violently at Aziraphale. “Who the hell is this?” 

“Hello,” he said, extending a hand. “I’m the Ezra Fell consultant. Aziraphale.” 

“Do you know anything about robotics?” he asked, neither taking his hand nor offering his name in return.

“I can’t say that I do.” 

“What are you doing over here then?” he yelled. “I bet _you_ broke the slug.” 

Aziraphale puffed up, although he had been wondering the same thing. “I most certainly did not!” 

“Uncle Bert, I broke it,” Newton rushed. “You know that.” 

“And now we’ll have to wait for Tomas to come back and fix it.” 

All of a sudden, the slug lurched on its own, constricting and releasing like the real thing, headed toward Mr. Bert Pulsifer, who jumped back in surprise. 

“Look at that thing!” Warlock shouted. Aziraphale simply could not believe that his governess had let him stay here to keep getting under foot. “Adam, we get to ride that!” Warlock dodged any hands which might have stopped him, ignoring Newton’s choked noise of warning, and wasted no time climbing up onto the slug machine. 

Dog barked at the slug, wagging his tail, as the slug seemed to notice the extra weight of the boy and started to thrash a bit. “Oh, shit!” Warlock laughed, holding on.

“I don’t think you should be up there,” Newton wavered, clearly uncertain if he could force the kid off. Aziraphale, too, had become semi-frozen, not because of Warlock’s presumptuous behavior, which he was growing used to, but the smear of natural mucus that seemed to trail behind the slug’s slow progress. 

That couldn’t be right. 

Just as he was trying to determine if he had accidentally caused the slug to come to life, Mr. Bert Pulsifer reached up and yanked Warlock down, ignoring the growling nips from Dog. The slug stopped moving, although the mucus track was still on the ground.

“You really shouldn’t grab people like that!” Adam said, joining them finally as Warlock pulled out of the man’s grip, rubbing his arm. Dog gave up on Bert Pulsifer and sat at his masters’ heels.

“Yeah!” Warlock snipped. They were causing enough of a scene that Janae had to put down her own cellular device and come over. Aziraphale could see Ms. Volk watching from afar, seeming to calculate if the situation needed her authority. “And what exactly is the point of all this stuff if we can’t test it out?” 

Aziraphale wasn’t quite listening to the bickering. If he had been the one to animate the slug, then his emotional state was worse than he thought. While it hadn’t happened in a long time, Aziraphale did have a history of performing miraculous acts without realizing, and almost always when he was unbalanced in some way. Early on in his intimacies with Gabriel, Aziraphale had had trouble keeping his wings in at critical moments. Worse, it seemed his instinct was to wobble out of his own physical form, to try and leak his essence into Gabriel’s, which was inappropriate and inconvenient for them both.

(After their first, big spat, he’d accidentally enlarged a slowworm to the size of a pony and frightened an entire village in Britannia Superior. The governor had to be called in for the mass hysteria, as many thought it was a dragon. It wasn’t so different from creating a real slug out of a fake slug for a few seconds. But certainly Crowley couldn’t have that sort of effect on him.)

Aziraphale excused himself just as Ms. Volk seemed to decide that, no, this matter couldn’t be settled without her. He walked back to the hotel, which was a long walk, and tried to contact Gabriel.

* * *

Aziraphale had taken a cab to Umberto's, the Italian place. He’d never been able to get through to Gabriel, always caught up by some angelic middleman secretary who said that his call would be passed on. After the third try, he’d asked what was so bloody important that Gabriel couldn’t speak with him. It wasn’t as if the Host didn’t know who Aziraphale was. He was told in rather stark terms not to use that kind of coarse language and that he didn’t have proper clearance. 

Standing outside the restaurant, a little after 7:00, he assured himself that he was overreacting. Crowley’s paranoia had gotten to him, and now he was snapping at clerks and withering about like some neglected housewife. 

He was just about to head into the restaurant. If he was to be made to wait, he would at least do it inside, with a drink. If he was drunk by the time Gabriel rolled in, that would be his fault. Maybe it would teach him to show up on time for things, although it hadn’t proven effective in the past. 

Off to the side of the restaurant, there was an alley with rubbish and a few backdoors. Aziraphale wouldn’t have even noticed it, but there was a clattering and a yowl. Aziraphale took a step toward the sound and then hesitated. He wrung his hands and looked for Gabriel, who still wasn’t there. He took another step toward the alley, and then another until he could see what was happening. 

There were two men facing away from him and standing over a raggedy cat, who was hissing and preparing to strike. 

“Ugly old bastard,” one of the men said, and he nudged the cat with the peeling toe of his boot. The scared thing yowled again, batting at him but not scampering off. 

Aziraphale stepped toward the alleyway, saying: “I sincerely hope you’re not planning to hurt that creature.” When he stepped past the mouth, he caught that burning scent from the morning. It was thick, cloying. It smelled almost sweet, the way vomit could smell saccharine if left for long enough, but also on fire. It took all of one second for Aziraphale to place: sulfur, and the scent of evil. It took Aziraphale half that time to realize he should have just gone into the restaurant. 

The cat ducked under the nearest dumpster.

“Ligur, look,” one said. “An _angel_,” he mock-cooed. 

“I can see that,” Ligur growled. 

With the cat squared away, Aziraphale thought there was really nothing too cowardly about bowing out, so he started to back away. “No reason for this to get unpleasant,” he said. The two of them were just watching him. “I’ll leave you to it.” 

“What are you talking about?” said a voice right beside him. He jumped, scrambling away from the demon who had popped up beside him—Ligur, he realized. _Crowley’s_ Ligur. He’d moved deeper into the alley, now between him and the one who most certainly was the equally sought after Hastur. He made a move toward the alley’s mouth but wasn’t quick enough to get around. 

He could hear a couple’s footsteps, a woman’s laugh, approaching the alley and quickly threw a mask up. He couldn’t bear to think what might happen if humans were to become involved. 

“As a soldier of the Lord,” Aziraphale started to say, barely keeping the quiver out of his voice, and Hastur and Ligur both began to laugh. “If you don’t let me pass, I absolutely will be forced to smite you. So, if you know what’s good for you—”

The one who must be Hastur lunged at him, and he didn’t think. His arm, an extension of his nerves, shot out. There was a crack and the holy smoke of his own making, and there was just as quick a hand in his hair, wrenching his head back. Ligur had gripped the offending wrist as well, snapping it. And the attack had done nothing. Hastur had jumped out of the way.

“Can you believe that an angel attacked us?” Ligur said to his colleague, rough against the side of Aziraphale’s face. “I mean from here, this is all self-defense.” And Hastur started to laugh, high and wild. Aziraphale stomped on Ligur’s foot, and, having caught him off guard, was able to pull himself out of his hold. Stumbling forward, he unfurled his wings, knowing if he could get off the ground, he could get over them. 

The wings pumped once, but they were so big for the tiny alley and it was easy for Ligur, once finished staggering, to snag a handful of feathers from the outer vane and tug them loose. Aziraphale whipped around, his free wing slamming against Hastur and knocking him back. He managed to get out of Ligur’s grip, shoving him aside, and making one last run toward the edge of the alley.

Ligur put a hand out and took hold around his second digit. He pulled him back, scrabbling up his wing and yanking. Aziraphale’s primaries were touching the filthy ground, Ligur stepping on them to keep him in place. For a moment he thought he was crying out at the indignity of it, but he heard the pop and realized that Ligur had dislocated his wing from its socket. His wing was hanging limp, and Ligur was stepping up it, slamming his foot into its radius. It snapped after the second stomp. 

Ligur stepped off to help his friend up. 

Aziraphale wasn’t sure what noise he was making, but he was gathering his wing up, trying to tuck it away, and it was taking so much of his energy that he knew he had to be panting at least. What kind of idiot took their wings out during a fight? He either thought it, or they were saying it behind him. He staggered, leaning his weight against the brick wall, a sting shooting up his back, through his shoulder. Hiding his wings away had taken all of his energy, and so he struggled to inch himself along the dirty wall to the entrance. 

“My clothes will be ruined,” he said, breathless, dizzy. And then there was a hand on his shoulder, tugging him back and slamming him onto the ground. He hit his head hard enough that things got a little dim for a second, and there was a ringing. “My suit,” he tried to explain, and a foot came down hard against his chest.

* * *

When they were done with him, they left the mask in place. “You can take it down when you’re ready,” Hastur told him with a smile. Aziraphale was concussed, and he couldn’t breathe, but he wasn’t completely stupid. Hastur and Ligur knew that keeping his broken wing hidden had spent him, and he would have to quietly discorporate in the alley because he didn’t have the energy to heal himself fast enough. 

Ligur stole his shoes, because he liked them and because he knew Aziraphale liked them too. Aziraphale thought he might never stop crying. Everything hurt, and he felt so entirely ashamed. It hadn’t even taken that long to make a mess of him. 

“Gabriel will be embarrassed,” Aziraphale tried to tell the kittens who were hiding with their mother under the dumpster, but couldn’t get the air to do so. His chest felt so tight, and there was a wheezing sound with every shaky breath he took. “Oh well,” he hushed, and he miracled some of the uncooked venison from the kitchen for them. 

The yellow lights above him were thrumming. He could almost hear them, pounding along with his head. Without being romantic about it, he spared a thought for Crowley, who really was in over his head if these were the types of people he looked for. He hoped Crowley, poor dear, didn’t find them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> he's fine


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys, what's good? (sorry this took me three months)

(Saturday)

In the morning, Crowley got out of bed. He dressed, looking even more devastatingly handsome than usual—wearing the tightest of denims, the thinnest of shirts, and boots that clicked and gave him a few more inches. He looked over his messages: an old one from Ezzy with his updated shoot schedule and a few from Hannah in all caps, ranting about unprofessionalism and promising she’d take the first flight out after she’d squared away business with one of her other tragic charges.

Crowley had slept some, which had been a surprise after how agitated he’d felt the day before. He hadn’t exercised patience or prudence in his dealings with Aziraphale, but as a demon it would have been vastly inappropriate for him to use the holy virtues. But that had never stopped him in the past. Something about Aziraphale made him feel positively beastly at times, which he recognized was funny. It was God’s joke on Crowley: to send a soldier just to remind him what he truly was. 

He tried to cut out any more of that ridiculous, soppy thinking before heading out into the hallway. When he knocked on Aziraphale’s door, he was perfectly contained, without a trace of sentimentality. He wasn’t sure what his exact plan for the day was, but he knew it would start with calm and with getting Aziraphale relaxed again.

He knocked again when there was no answer, louder. He pressed his ear against the door, stretching his hearing, trying to pick up any murmurs, any shuffling about from inside. There was nothing. 

Crowley then went to the bakery, because that was the next place Aziraphale was likely to be. He wasn’t there either. By accident, he made eye contact with the niece and had to order a coffee and two croissants to go.

“Breakfast in bed for your mister?” she teased, getting it all packaged up. Crowley snatched the bag without another word, forgetting his coffee but ultimately deciding it was a fair price to not deal with all the giggling. 

When he tried Aziraphale’s room again, he pounded on the door. “Come on, I just want to talk!” he shouted, and when there was no response, he said: “I brought you breakfast. Open up!” 

“Do you know what time it is?” an older woman in her dressing robe and bonnet shrilled, peeking out from her room. Crowley made a rude hand gesture at her, but he quit trying to get Aziraphale to answer.

Maybe he and Gabriel had stayed out all night. Maybe he had decided he’d had enough and was going home without a goodbye. Maybe he was discorporated in a ditch. Crowley didn’t know. He wasn’t even going to _think_ about it because it wouldn’t do him any good. He couldn’t make Aziraphale do anything, and he didn’t want to anyway. 

_Bastard_, he thought without the usual fondness. He turned on his heel and threw the pastry bag out in the lobby. He went on a long drive before the shoot.

* * *

To get the lighting right for the scene, they had to start shooting in the woods promptly at 9:00. It was a scene from the middle of the film, when the wizard appears, riding on his chariot of light, to discredit the various noble beasts that the boys had met during their journey. The crew had been rigging the chariot up since 4:00 am, to get the right angle so the sun would illuminate it. Crowley thought it was a lot for just one shot, but he’d mostly worked in TV so he really didn’t know. 

Hair and makeup was quick, and the breeze outside was warm. He had hoped (although it didn’t matter) that Aziraphale would be there and run to him and have some rambling, pointless explanation as to why he hadn’t come back to the hotel.

“I think it should hold,” the young Pulsifer said, walking over to Ezzy.

“You think?” she repeated. The bags under her eyes were more than pronounced. There was beginning to be a ghoulish tint to her otherwise round, healthy face. 

The guy flustered, fumbling for his words. Crowley thought it wasn’t a huge deal, because he was the one in the suspended chariot anyway. If it fell, he could sue. The thoughts of months of litigation made him feel a little better.

He got into his costume just as the boys and Dog were loosed. Warlock was gawking up at the chariot, lifted a few feet over his head. If Crowley had been his nanny, he would have told him to close his mouth before a passing bird caught him unawares. 

“No way will that move,” Warlock said.

“Yes, it will,” Adam replied, pointing up at it. “See that rig. It won’t go far or fast, but it should be enough for the scene.”

“Oh, did you find the lake monster yet?” Warlock asked, moving out of the way just as the chariot was lowered to its ground position.

“Not yet, but I’m sure it’ll pop up!” 

Dog ruffed, seemingly in agreement. 

“Where’s Aziraphale this morning?” Ezzy asked as Crowley was getting situated in the chariot. 

“How should I know?” he spat, although he knew full well why she thought he should know. “He hasn’t talked to you?”

Ezzy waved it off. “I’m sure he’ll turn up. I really don’t have the time to hunt him down right now. If we don’t see him by lunch, I’ll send a search party.” She seemed to be joking but said the words with no inflection. “So, you’ll say your line once the chariot’s stopped moving forward. On its landing, the boys will talk.” 

Crowley nodded, because he figured shrugging wouldn’t help the director’s state.

The effects team began to hoist the chariot up, into its first position on the rig’s path. “How’s it looking?” Ezzy asked the DP, Will, who gave her a thumbs up from behind the viewfinder. “All right, boys, you stand where I told you.” The boys dutifully did, Dog sitting at Bert Pulsifer’s feet and getting fed nibbles of his ham and cheese sandwich. “Mark it,” she said. 

Just then, Mara came running over, her cell phone pressed to her ear. “Ms. Volk!” she said, and pulled her aside. Crowley watched them speak, mostly because there wasn’t much else to do while in the gently swaying chariot.

“What?” Ezzy near-shouted. Mara frowned, covering the cell phone receiver, and whispered in her ear. “Which hospital?” she snapped. 

“Oi, Pulsifer boy, let me down!” Crowley shouted, although he was sure there was no reason for it. Ezzy pulled out her own phone.

“What’s going on?” Warlock asked, put out by the delays. “Aren’t we filming?” 

The chariot started to move on its own, passing the trees faster than the rig was designed for. It went a little farther too, sailing over the crew's heads, starting its descent close to the makeup chairs in a sunny clearing. Crowley could hear people shouting, but he didn’t register it as he hopped out of the golden prop. He hadn’t even realized that he’d done it, but it must have been him. 

“Who’s in hospital?” he called, getting out of the chariot while the crew started to scurry around him. Ezzy was busy glaring between him and the chariot and the Pulsifers, so she didn’t answer right away.

“Are you all right?” Mara shouted.

“Aziraphale,” Ezzy said. “He’s at John Radcliffe.” 

“I’m very shaken,” Crowley told Mara, already gathering up his jacket and glasses from the makeup chair beside him. “I feel faint from this strange occurrence. Might have whiplash. I’m just going to pop over.” He was stepping away from the set, to the designated parking lot. 

“Should we have someone drive you?” Mara looked around frantically, seeing if anyone was unoccupied.

“We’ll be behind you,” Ezzy said, calling Mara back to work and starting to put the set to rights. The effects team was told to fix the rig. Janae was told to take the boys for breakfast. Crowley didn’t hear any of this, because he was already driving away.

* * *

At the hospital, Crowley got a nurse to tell him where Aziraphale was and stole a bouquet of flowers from some excited father-to-be. He should have been with the mother if he didn’t want to get his things snatched. He caught the doctor coming out of room 117, where Aziraphale had been put. 

“Are you the husband?” the doctor asked. “He’s been asking for you.”

“Er, I’m the—husband, sure. I’m his husband. What happened?” 

The doctor sighed, clearly having other patients to get to. “He was found by a busboy in an alley. He’d been attacked and mugged. They took his wallet and his phone, so we had to wait for him to remember the name of your hotel to call. He’s stable, but we’ve had to sedate him. The detectives will be back a little later to get his full statement, when he’s calmed down. I’m sorry, sir, but you’ll have to excuse me. This morning has been hell.” And the doctor ducked into the next room over, getting a squirt of hand sanitizer and a new clipboard. 

“My husband!” Aziraphale laughed when he came in, his head rocking against the pillow. He took too deep a breath and abruptly stopped. Still, he smiled as much as he could with his lower lip busted. “You told him you were my husband,” he mooned. “I heard you, you sly thing.” He was slurring. He looked so terrible, but he kept trying to grin at Crowley. He was practically glowing to see him. “But, oh, I forgive you because I’ve had no one to talk to all morning except my horrible nurse and Mrs. Warren, my neighbor, but she’s even further gone than I.” He indicated the bed beside him, and a very old woman who seemed to be sleeping.

“Do you know what they gave you?” Crowley asked, approaching his bedside with some caution.

“Opium,” Aziraphale murmured. He couldn't quite keep his eyes open, possibly a combination of the drugs and that one was black and swollen shut. 

“It’s probably not opium, pigeon.”

“Oh, you sweet man. Just like your father. Oh, my love,” Aziraphale squinted at him. He bumbled, reaching for him, trying to pull him into the chair by the bed. He had a white cast on his wrist. “How good of you to visit me. I’m afraid I’m a mess. Terrible to look at. I never am like this. But you see, they hurt me—my _wings_. I mean to say, on the inside. Like the soul? You know how people say their soul is their wings?” Crowley didn’t bother to tell him that no one had ever said that, because his non-black eye was leaking tears. “If they hadn’t, I’d heal myself as I’m awfully strong. Which is why I need Gabriel to come help me. My dear, what are you wearing?” 

Crowley realized he was still in his costume: a navy blue suit, with silver flecks to represent the uncaring cosmos and a cape for flair. He looked like an absolute arse. 

“Did you wear that for me?” Aziraphale hummed, back to smiling, his head flopping a little. “You look so beautiful. I didn’t get to make the stars,” he said mournfully, but quickly cheered. “I got to make some of the birds! But I didn’t get to name them. And there are so many _names_ for them. So many different words for the names. What were the names of the people you were looking for?” 

“Hastur and—”

“Ligur, yes. Awful types! Please stop your search. I can assure you they are not worth your time, my dear boy. My darling. Oh, my friend, I wish we hadn’t fought. You have no idea how lonely I felt all of yesterday. I hadn’t felt lonely like that since I’d gotten used to being alone.” 

“Aziraphale—” Crowley choked.

“Shh shh shh, none of that. Don’t look sad. Here, if we’re quick,” he said, starting to fiddle with his IV, “I’m sure you could take a little nip off my line.” Crowley covered his clumsy fingers to stop them. “Don’t look sad, please. Oh, I can’t bear it if you’re sad, Crowley.” 

“Did Hastur and Ligur do this to you?”

“Crowley, dear, give me your hand.” Aziraphale groped for it, and Crowley was helpless but to offer it up. “You know, I can read palms,” he said, tipping his head, blinking slowly. He turned Crowley’s hand into the broad, warm cradle of his own, palm up for Aziraphale to peer over. “Oh, why, look at this! You’ll live a very long life. You’re going to be so successful, and there will be great happiness in your home. You’ll fall in love and have many little Crowleys. They’ll live long and healthy lives too, and maybe I can be their friend as well. But most importantly you will be very safe and very loved.” 

Crowley only then realized that Aziraphale was trying to bless him, inelegantly trying to offer some sort of lasting angelic protection. The knowledge battered against his ribcage, and he curled his hand up, taking it back. Aziraphale hummed at the loss, gazing back at Crowley’s face, scrutinizing it.

“Aziraphale, where’s Gabriel?” he asked. He also wanted to know where Gabriel had been, and why Aziraphale had been in an alleyway, and why Gabirel hadn’t been the one to find him and heal him right away. 

“I’ve called,” Aziraphale groaned. “I’ve called and called, but,” he shook his head, “I can’t get through. I look such a mess, don’t I? If he could just come here and help me, I’d be all right.” He was working himself up, starting to hiccup and stammer. Worse, the erratic breathing was making him wheeze and jerk, like his ribs had been broken. 

“I might be able to help you,” Crowley said, leaning in. Healing had never been his strong suit, but if Aziraphale would show him his wings, he might be able to at least soothe them. He could tend to them enough that Aziraphale could put his attention toward healing himself. 

“You are helping me,” Aziraphale said kindly. “I do appreciate you being here.” 

“No, I mean, I’m a—” 

“Ezra, my namesake!” Aziraphale cooed, gaze getting snatched over Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing a hand over his face as Ezzy stepped into the room. “Or that is—named for my life’s sake. Hello,” he cheered. Crowley looked at Ezzy and only glared a little. She saw and was unmoved.

“Mr. Aziraphale,” she said, face even tighter in her unhappiness at seeing him unwell. “What happened?” 

“I’m afraid some street toughs got the best of me. I hope I haven’t thrown the shoot off-schedule by making you come down here.” He looked so happy to see her, to have two guests, his head lolling. His eyes were shining, like he might cry again. 

“Are you kidding me?” Ezzy said, mouth a firm line. “This is exactly the sort of accident that Pulsifer Practical will extend their contract for.” 

“For me? Just for the old consultant?” Aziraphale grinned between the two. Ezzy’s mouth pursed in something maybe like a smile. Crowley just tried to keep from shouting her out of the room. 

“Aziraphale,” Gabriel said. Crowley sat up straighter, whipping around. Ezzy, too, turned to watch his approach. 

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale smiled, looking relieved but a bit panicked, like he wasn’t prepared for him quite yet. He sat up as much as he could. 

“I’d like to talk to my husband privately.” Gabriel came to stand by the bed without urgency. He didn’t look at all concerned. Crowley had to bite his tongue to keep it from splitting. He was close to slipping into his deep glottal rattle out of distaste alone. 

Ezzy and Crowley left together, standing just outside the room. “He calls his husband by his last name?” Ezzy whispered before they’d quite made it out. 

“He’s a twat,” Crowley said, loud enough.

The door slammed behind them, and Ezzy startled because neither of them were close enough to do that. 

“Must be the wind,” Crowley said, feeling much too exhausted. 

“The wind,” Ezzy repeated. She wouldn’t look away from his face. Crowley ignored it, watching through the little window. 

Inside Gabriel was seated on the edge of the bed. He wasn’t touching Aziraphale, seeming reluctant to comfort him. 

“Because people have seen you, you’ll have to heal your corporation slowly,” Gabriel was saying. 

Aziraphale shook his head in a jerk. “That’s not my fault. I thought you might find me, but you never even came.” 

“I’ve told you, Aziraphale. It’s a very busy time. You’re the one who pushed for 7:00.” 

“But you didn’t come _at all_!” Aziraphale cried, and even Ezzy heard that, trying to peek over Crowley to see what was happening. 

Gabriel finally touched Aziraphale, taking his wrist, holding it firmly. “Shh.” Crowley couldn’t tell if he meant it to soothe or silence. “Let me heal your wing.” 

“Tell me what’s going on. Gabriel, there were _demons_. I was so frightened.” 

“Which is why I can’t tell you.” Gabriel leaned in to press a kiss against Aziraphale’s temple. Aziraphale, either from habit or from the drug cocktail, did not push the issue. “Let me heal your wing.” 

Crowley turned his back on the door, making sure Ezzy couldn’t see in. He himself wanted to look, to uncover the little window and see if Aziraphale’s wings were pure white or silvery gray or dappled lavender. He wanted to see what had been done to them, if they need to be groomed. 

“How would you know if they were demons, anyway?” Gabriel asked, not cruelly but without much attention. 

Aziraphale balked, or maybe Gabriel had snapped a bone back in place and that was why he’d made such a gasping sound. “I think I would know what a demon looks like! And the smell! I can sense these things, Gabriel.” 

“Can you?” Gabriel laughed gently. “Fine. These are a mess, Aziraphale. Put them away. Get sober so you can go back to the hotel and tidy them up.” 

“Can’t you take me? Won’t you groom them? Please,” he tacked on at the end, too out of it to sound particularly upset to have to ask. “I don’t want to sober up just yet.” 

“My little junkie,” Gabriel hummed, and Crowley had to turn back and look. Aziraphale had put his wings away and seemed to be breathing a little easier now that maintaining them was no longer his primary concern. Gabriel knocked his knuckles against Aziraphale’s chin, endeared by him and not much more. “I’ll ask Crowley to take you back, but you better sober up. Who knows what you might say? There’s only so much you can blame on being doped up.” He then stood, turning on him without another look or word. 

“Why don’t you tell Aziraphale about the shoot this morning?” Crowley asked Ezzy as Gabriel was opening the door. “I’m sure he’d like to know just how things cocked up without him.”

Ezzy ducked in, although Crowley wasn’t so stupid that he thought his diversion had worked. She left the door open, but Crowley was sure she wouldn’t hear.

“Were you spying on us?” Gabriel asked, smiling easily. “It’s your nature to slither into private places, isn’t it?” 

“I know who the demons were that attacked him,” Crowley offered. “Don’t you want to know, so it doesn’t happen again? We could stop them together.” 

“It won’t happen again.”

“They’re here, though,” Crowley said. “Things are getting weird—weirder than usual. So I’d really appreciate it if you would tell me what’s going on. Don’t you want to keep what’s yours safe?” Crowley, after all, had started to identify the way Gabriel looked at Aziraphale. It was the same way Crowley looked at the Bentley. “Are you any kind of archangel if you can’t do that and protect _one_ thing?” 

Gabriel’s smile became tighter, his gaze harder. “Are you any kind of demon if you’re getting romantic over a bit of pussy? Please tell me you’re not going to start crying too.”

“I’m a traitor,” Crowley explained, easy as breathing. “That’s the kind of thing I am. I always have been. And so I can be useful to you for this. You just have to tell me what’s happening.” 

Gabriel shifted his weight, leaning in a little. He was still unconvinced, and he wore that plainly along with mild amusement. “What do you think is happening, Crawly?” 

“Some kind of negotiation,” he tried. Gabriel’s face didn’t change, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. “Some kind of meeting between us and you guys. Am I even close?” he asked, voice rising. It was loud enough to pull Aziraphale and Ezzy’s attention from inside.

“Darling?” Aziraphale slurred. “Are you two arguing?” 

Gabriel and Crowley said no in unison, and Gabriel lost his good humor finally, realizing he also wasn’t sure who Azirapahle had called to. Sharply, he said: “I’ll be at the hotel tonight. Maybe we can talk then. If we can get Aziraphale to fall asleep, it shouldn’t be any trouble.” 

Crowley’s mouth opened, but it took him a moment to find the words. “You cannot be serious.” 

Gabriel shrugged. “There’s a lot to do lately. I could use a night to relax.” This time, when he reached forward to brush his fingers against Crowley’s cheek, Crowley carefully didn’t flinch away. “I think we all could,” he said, the tips of his fingers trailing down his jaw, his broad hand curving around the back of Crowley’s neck. “Aziraphale always feels better when I put him to sleep.” 

The grip on Crowley kept him very still. It was probably the only thing that kept him from trembling openly. He didn’t know what to say.

“Say ‘Okay, Gabriel,’ or you’re not invited.” 

“Okay, Gabriel,” Crowley said, barely louder than a breath. 

Gabriel clapped him once on the back, very hard. “Wonderful! I’ll see you tonight. You can handle getting him back, can’t you, champ?” 

“Yeah,” Crowley said, crossing his arms in front of himself.

“He’s in _good_ hands.” Gabriel checked his watch, and Crowley almost laughed at the gesture. “Oh, is that the time? Duty calls. See you tonight.” He winked, and then he was off.

* * *

Aziraphale was still out of it when Crowley came back in. “Did Gabriel leave already?” he asked.

Crowley twitched the corner of his mouth, trying to smile.

“Did you know Aziraphale can read palms?” Ezzy said to fill the void of conversation, and Aziraphale lightly rubbed his eyes where tears seemed to be escaping again. 

“Yeah, he already did me.” 

“I want to do the whole crew,” Aziraphale said, pushing himself up. “I’m feeling much better,” he said, although his face was still carefully bruised to avoid suspicion. “Let’s go now.” 

Ezzy, for the first time, looked panicked. “I’m sure they can wait a day or two.” 

“Oh, no, it must be today,” he assured her. “Here, let me just unplug and I’ll sober up.” He was fumbling with his IV. Crowley stilled his hand but did it for him. There was no reason for them to stay at the hospital anyway, and it would be best to leave before whatever detectives had been called in came back. 

“Crowley, what are you doing?” she nearly yelled. Mrs. Warren in the next bed groaned, her only sign of life so far.

“Poor thing,” Aziraphale moaned, and he waved his hand. Mrs. Warren then woke up, got her bearings, and glowered at the three of them.

“Jesus, it’s bloody bright in this shithole,” she told them.

“Hello, Mrs. Warren!” Aziraphale sang. "You’ve un-had a stroke.” 

“Okay!” Crowley said, slamming the call button and helping Aziraphale out of bed. “Let’s get you back to the hotel.” 

“Oh, my clothes,” Aziraphale said, looking down at his thin hospital gown in horror. To Crowley, he said: “_Then the eyes of both of them were opened, and they knew that they were naked_.” 

“I think I saw a robe by the door. Ezzy, could you grab that?” Crowley asked, trying to stop Aziraphale before he got it in his head to speak a whole verse. 

Ezzy was stock still. “What just happened?” 

“There’s slippers too,” Crowley said because Aziraphale hissed when his bare feet hit the cold tile floor. Ezzy finally stood, although she didn’t look away from Mrs. Warren, who was sitting up and grumbling about all the noise. 

“Crowley, my _shoes_.” Aziraphale lowed. He started to weep, for the first time crying because he meant to. “I’ve had them for—for so awfully long.” 

“I’ll get you new shoes. I’ll find the old ones. Just put these on. We’ll go back to the hotel.” 

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale sniffed. He cosied up in the robe, which was very much not hospital quality. “We have to go to the set.” 

“Ezzy’s called off the shoot today, right, Ezzy?” 

“We’re reconvening this afternoon,” she said, and Crowley groaned because she was still too shocked to be any help. Aziraphale frowned, and Crowley took his arm to steady him as he stepped into the slippers. 

“Don’t we need a doctor to release him?” Ezzy asked. “Doesn’t he need to talk to the police?”

“Nah,” Crowley said, starting to lead Aziraphale out, hoping desperately he wouldn’t start healing everyone in sight. “He’s fine. It’s fine. I’ll see you later.” 

Aziraphale couldn’t keep his head up and he was back to crying off and on for no reason, but Crowley didn’t think it was right of him to force the drugs out of his system. They walked slowly through the lobby, Ezzy saying her goodbyes and then plowing ahead of them, tapping on her phone.

“Did you see that?” Aziraphale asked, knocking into Crowley as he tried to point. “The TV,” he said, coming to a stubborn halt. “They said that some kind of golem was found in Bagley Wood. How funny; that’s right near Tadfield. That’s just a little south of here. It’s just like in my story, Crowley. Oh! Could it be publicity for the movie?” 

Crowley scanned the slow subtitles at the bottom of the screen: **the clay-covered man walked up to Ms. Burns and her son, but all he wanted was to talk to them about how, just like a tree grows best with deep roots, a strong spiritual and emotional foundation is central to withstanding times of**—

“I don’t think this is publicity,” he decided.

“Hm?” Aziraphale said, leaning more against him, seeming to have forgotten already. He allowed himself to be moved once more. 

Crowley got them to the car, and Aziraphale seemed to snooze on the drive back. This was for the best as Crowley drove with his mind even farther from the road than usual. With one hand on the wheel, he used the other to scroll through the news on his phone. The Bentley got them back to the hotel.

* * *

Aziraphale was significantly more lucid when they arrived at the hotel. He was a little groggy but mostly embarrassed, and he wouldn’t let Crowley into the room with him. 

“It’s not you,” Aziraphale promised. “I just need to pull myself together. I feel so foolish. I can hardly remember anything that happened. I didn’t say anything—anything horrible, did I?” 

“No,” Crowley said, and he was frustrated that the costumer hadn’t thought to make pockets for the suit because he didn’t know what to do with his hands. He thought about telling Aziraphale everything, and he thought about it backfiring. He still figured that was a possibility. And even if Gabriel didn’t end him over that, he certainly wouldn’t tell Crowley what was going on. 

Aziraphale wrung his hands, the cast still on but now clearly unnecessary. “That’s why they sedated me,” he admitted after a moment’s consideration. “I was frightening the other patients. I don’t quite remember how. Screaming, I suppose, when they wouldn’t let me leave after I’d woken up.” 

Crowley could almost see it: Aziraphale disconsolate, attempting to get up from his hospital bed the moment he regained consciousness and couldn’t find Gabriel. The staff would have been worried he’d exacerbate his injuries. They would have thought he was having some kind of nervous episode. 

“I feel very silly over the whole thing,” Aziraphale tried to laugh. “And that you had to… well, you’ve been more than accommodating.” 

“Accommodating.” Crowley nearly reeled at the word. 

Flinching, Aziraphale seemed to realize he’d said the wrong thing but probably didn’t know why. “Thank you again, dear boy.” The words were stilted. “I’ll see you on set, this afternoon.” 

“Oh, you remember that?” Crowley couldn’t seem to stop himself. Aziraphale winced, back to fiddling with his rings, and Crowley turned on his heel. “I’ll give you a ride over, if you like,” he said over his shoulder. “See you.” He went to his room.

* * *

In the Tadfield woods, there were some small reports of flocks of birds, all of which become worth mentioning because they were not native to the area. 

After reading this on his little phone screen, Crowley changed out of his ridiculous costume and went out again. He drove back into the city to buy a copy of _The Way Home_, because it seemed the right course of action. 

(Unfortunately, the clerk recognized him. She asked why he didn’t already have a copy if he was in the movie. Crowley didn’t have to think of a response because the woman cut her thumb on the receipt while handing it over with his purchase.)

Crowley realized, in the car ride back, that he didn’t know what the next step of the plan was. He figured the book was key, or at least _a_ key. 

In the surrounding towns and woods, there were stranger occurrences than the flying chariot or birds: dancing lights, the friendly and wise golem, and a case of three-foot ants emerging from the treeline and raiding the closest Tesco for candy. The clerk, a profoundly stoned 19 year old, had only thought to call that in when he’d realized they’d taken all the Aero Bars, which he’d been thinking about nicking for a snack. Because of the absurdity and the truly impressive amount of edibles the boy had taken before work, no one really trusted that the ants had happened. 

However, if this was related to _The Way Home_, it might track that the ants had truly come: Ezra Fell had meant to teach children a lesson about sharing, having the boys give a swarm of ants half their cake. For this treat, the ants deposed their own queen who had made an attempt on the boys’ lives. In Fell’s words: _Ants like sweet things best, and after that they like their masters, and then their yoke_. Crowley had trouble with the entire concept, as did most readers, but the Tesco boy had seemed very adamant that the ants had been singularly sweet-focused during their spree and that no authority or physical barrier could have stopped them. 

However, if this really was all related to _The Way Home_, Crowley still had no idea what it meant, who was causing it, or why.

* * *

When Aziraphale opened the door, he was tidied up and relatively calm. He’d healed himself as much was appropriate, now sporting a modest shiner and only a little swelling where his lip had been busted open earlier. He no longer wore the cast, his nail beds had been scrubbed clean, and his hands were fully functional. 

“Crowley!” he greeted, like nothing had happened. “Are we all ready to go?” 

Crowley didn’t want to let him off the hook, and to pretend like he hadn’t been hurt, and that it hadn’t made Crowley feel afraid beyond language. He grimaced a smile, and it was a compromise. Aziraphale knew that, and so he stepped out of the room without another word. He locked the door behind himself.

The drive was silent, as Aziraphale didn’t speak and Crowley didn’t turn on the radio.

They parked by the large Pulsifer Practical truck, and Aziraphale was immediately swarmed by his well-wishers.

“I should see the other guys, yeah?” Will nudged, his huge hand clasping around Aziraphale’s shoulder in a way that would have been entirely inappropriate if Aziraphale had still been injured. Crowley couldn’t help but eye that hand with distaste regardless. 

“Oh, no,” Aziraphale laughed. “They were hideous and really quite, ah, mopped the floor with me, I believe the phrase goes!” 

Janae looked uncomfortable with the admission and took out her phone. Will, after a second’s thought, laughed. It seemed to ease Aziraphale’s mood. 

“You watch out for him,” Will told Crowley, slamming his hand against Crowley’s back this time. He winced but refrained from rubbing at the spot and rolling out his shoulder until Will had gone off to mess with the cameras. He caught Aziraphale watching him, smiling a little.

“_Delicate_,” Aziraphale stated. Crowley made a show of frowning and straightening himself. But the word had been said with adoration, a complete delight in knowing something others did not know. Aziraphale still looked happy, and Crowley felt the smallest twinge of pleasure under everything else. 

Aziraphale stepped toward him, cupped his jaw and thumbed over his bottom lip. He pressed the slightest kiss against the corner of his mouth, and there was that feeling again: Aziraphale was trying to bestow a blessing upon him. Crowley wondered if he felt that it wasn’t working, that it would never work, and could put together what that meant. He caught Aziraphale’s wrist, just to be careful, and pulled away to press his lips against his soft, warm palm. 

“Oo~ooh!” one of the children called. 

“Don’t look; they’re making out!” said the other—Adam, Crowley’s brain supplied, because his eyes had closed in frustration.

“Oh, dear, we’ve been caught!” Aziraphale sounded fine with that. 

“What happened to your face?” Warlock gawped.

“That’s a hickey,” Adam explained.

“No, it’s not!” Warlock shrilled, although he didn’t seem all sure.

“It’s not,” Crowley agreed, all while Aziraphale laughed. 

Crowley was pulled into costuming and makeup, trading his neatly folded cosmic suit for an overly styled one-piece spandex number that zipped up the front. It didn’t look right for a children’s movie, but Crowley didn’t tell anyone he thought so. 

He watched Aziraphale stand awkwardly beside Bert Pulsifer, who squinted against the sun and halfheartedly tried to ignore him.

“And what is the thing Pulsifer Practical does again?” Aziraphale asked delicately.

“Practical effects.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale hummed, and then laughed a little. “Yes, that’s very funny.”

“What?” 

“Oh, just that you didn’t go for the obvious thing. Pulsifer Effects.” 

Bert looked at Aziraphale and then looked at the side of one of the many boxes which bore his company’s logo in huge letters. “Fuck,” he said. “God-shitting-damn it.” 

Ezzy appeared then, talking lowly with Mara, who looked concerned, and glancing at Aziraphale. She stopped in front of Crowley, opened her mouth as if to berate him with questions, and then groused unintelligibly and went to check in with Will. 

Mara lagged behind. “She’s very upset since the hospital,” she whispered, so the makeup technician might not hear. “Mr. Aziraphale doesn’t look so bad, though. Did something happen there?” 

Crowley looked at her from behind his sunglasses. “Like what?” 

“Like…” Mara hesitated. “She was asking Will if he knew anything about miracles, on account of him being French and more likely Catholic.” 

“Will’s French?” Crowley looked too quickly, and the makeup artist grumbled. 

“French Canadian, I think. Or maybe just Canadian.” Mara looked over at her boss again to make sure her absence hadn’t been felt yet. “Do you… Do _you_ know anything about miracles, Mr. Crowley?” 

“Like what?” 

“I think I heard a kookaburra in the woods. I know, it’s crazy—or maybe it’s somebody’s pet.” 

“You know a lot of bird calls, then?” Crowley was let out of the chair. 

Mara frowned, clutching her clipboard a little tighter. “I’ve worked on nature shows.” 

Ezzy then called the both of them over. “When the children come back from wherever they’ve run off too, we can start filming. Mara, would you tell Mr. Pulsifer to start preparing the slug for the chase scene.”

“The young or old one?” Mara checked. 

“Best do the old one. I wouldn’t trust the young one to use my microwave.” 

Crowley thought that was a bit much, but Ezzy looked terrible, like she had been perpetually on edge since that morning. Her hair was sticking up, and one of her nailbeds was lazily bleeding where she had chewed it raw. She must not have been able to get the Pulsifers to extend the contract, or she would have called the day off and tried again on Sunday, or even after the weekend was over. 

Or, at least, Crowley hoped that was the case because the other option was that Ezzy was really losing it, and things would only get worse as the shoot got weirder. 

Mara walked off, and Ezzy started rattling to Will, reminding him of her vision, pulling out some drawings to refresh his memory. Crowley wasn’t quite paying attention. Aziraphale was looking at him, watching him, and Crowley couldn’t help but look back. He raised a hand and tried to smile. He then dropped it, feeling very stupid at the gesture. But Aziraphale practically beamed, and he waved back. 

The approach of the boys and Dog was heralded with shouting. Crowley saw Dog sprinting out from the treeline. 

“Spit it out!” Warlock was shrieking.

“Dog, drop it,” Adam said with much more authority. Dog, who was now between Crowley and Ezzy’s feet, stopped running and laid something on the ground between them. 

“What is that?” Will asked mildly. “One of the props?” 

Dog’s tail thumped, and Ezzy bent down to pick it up. Crowley had seen enough and was already walking away before Ezzy even cried out, dropping the thing back on the ground. By the sound of it, Dog had snatched it back into his mouth and was starting to gnaw.

“It’s a little person, with wings!” Ezzy was hissing to Will. Everyone’s attention had been caught, all running to see Dog disembowel the fairy corpse. Someone actually screamed. 

“What’s all of that?” Aziraphale asked, the only one who had stayed in place. He was fidgeting, straining his neck as if he might see over everyone. 

“A fairy,” Crowley said, “Dog had a fairy.” 

“Oh, no. Couldn’t be. Fairies aren’t real.” He continued to wring his hands. 

“I want to talk to you about something,” Crowley said. Behind them, Ezzy was calling the rest of the day off while Will tried to wrestle the bloodied thing from between Dog’s teeth. Mara was on the phone, calling in someone to come look at the creature. 

“That’s just one of our props!” the Pulsifer boy said to calm everyone, and then must have taken a closer look. “Oh.” 

“Have you eaten?” Crowley asked. 

“I haven’t,” Aziraphale said mildly. 

“Let me buy you dinner.”

* * *

There was a brief moment, in the car, where it almost seemed like Aziraphale was going to suggest the Italian place. 

“It’s just that I still haven’t gotten to go,” Aziraphale said, mostly to himself. 

Crowley was slow to respond. “If that’s what you want…”

“No, we best not. Can’t risk being seen by the busboy and bringing up bad memories.” And so they decided on the pub restaurant, which had been adequate in quality and exceptional in privacy. 

They ordered a bottle of rosé, but Crowley stayed away from it, instead getting a beer he didn’t like and sipping at the foam. 

“Things are getting dangerous here.” Crowley watched Aziraphale carefully as he poured a glass. “I’m thinking about leaving in the morning.” 

Aziraphale stilled, glass halfway to his lips, and then forced himself to resume. “Yes,” he strained to get out as he set the wine glass down with extra care. “Perhaps you should go. Ms. Volk seems one more calamity away from sending everyone home. But, even if she wasn’t, you ought to be somewhere safer.” 

Crowley sighed, because Aziraphale just couldn’t make anything easy. “I think you should come with me. I _want_ you to come with me.”

“I don’t think Gabriel would like that very much.” Aziraphale wouldn’t look at him. 

“If you say yes, we don’t have to be apart. I can’t explain it because—because I can’t.” He could see that that wasn’t good enough. “But we could keep each other safe. After tonight, I should know what’s happening.” 

“You’re not still going after those two, are you?” Aziraphale looked pale, and he put his hands on his lap.

“No, I’m not.”

“They’re why you should go,” Aziraphale said over him. “They’re not a good sort.” 

“I know that,” Crowley said. “I know what _sort_ they are, angel. With them around and your—your military, and all the strange things happening, I just think we need to make an exit plan.” 

“There’s no we, Crowley,” Aziraphale snipped.

Crowley shrunk back and stopped talking for a moment. He swallowed some beer, trying not to taste it. “I don’t think you mean that.”

Aziraphale sighed. “My dear,” he began and then cleared his throat. “I like you. Such a terrible and awful lot. More than I should. And there is no way that I could run off with you that wouldn’t end with me feeling very much broken up at the end of things. Not in the way I think you’re asking me.” 

“Then just for a few days, and when things blow over, I’ll bring you back.” Crowley drummed his hand on the table, and then started in again. “There doesn’t have to be an end for us. I’m—”

“All right,” Aziraphale said in a great rush of breath. “I’ll go with you. I’ll tell Gabriel in the morning.” Their meals came then: shepherd’s pie with beef and a second wine glass for Crowley, which Aziraphale must have miracled the waiter into bringing. 

“You don’t have to answer to him,” Crowley said, even though the server was still there.

“I do.” And Aziraphale didn’t sound indignant. He didn’t even sound resigned. He had stated a fact. He might have been telling Crowley that the sun would set soon and then come back in the morning. Everything Aziraphale did was considered through Gabriel first. 

Crowley was glad he’d been interrupted. He drank mostly to keep his mouth full so he might not endanger himself again.

* * *

When they got back to the room, Aziraphale was in good enough spirits. He’d talked Crowley into finally ditching his beer for the wine, and they had finished the bottle together and opened another. Crowley himself had accepted the lack of trust between them and decided it was fine and it didn’t bother him. 

Gabriel was waiting for them. 

“Oh, it’s you,” Aziraphale said, flattened. “I hadn’t thought you’d be here. Don’t you have more important business to attend to?”

“Don’t be like that.” Gabriel smiled tightly, annoyed but not apologetic. 

“Apologies. Shall I undress now, my lord, or am I to go just straight to your service?” 

“Crowley, leave,” Gabriel said.

“Crowley, stay.” Aziraphale didn’t look at him though. 

“I want a word alone with my husband, so, Crowley, get out.” Gabriel looked angry, and Crowley couldn’t tell who that was most directed at as he stood stock still at Aziraphale’s side. 

“Do as you like, Crowley. _You_ don’t have to listen to him.” 

“I’m gonna—bathroom,” Crowley said and locked himself in as soon as he could. 

“What’s gotten into you, turtledove?” Gabriel said too sweetly. “You can’t want to start a fight in front of company. That’s not hospitable. Think about your sense of decorum.” 

Aziraphale ignored that. “I know you came to the hospital, but I can’t seem to remember you apologizing for never showing up last night.” 

“You know how things get, and I told you I was busy. I’m _sorry_ you’re upset.”

“I thought I’d discorporate,” Aziraphale said, lowering his voice. Crowley turned on the faucet so he could eavesdrop better. “You don’t seem concerned about what they might have done to me. And they were _demons_.”

“I wouldn’t mind if you were back in Heaven,” Gabriel told him, voice patient and reasonable. “You can’t live down here forever.”

Aziraphale was silent, and when he spoke again he sounded ragged. “You didn’t ask them to discorporate me, did you?” 

Gabriel sighed. “You’re being paranoid again.” 

“You didn’t answer my question!” Aziraphale shouted, and Gabriel shushed him, saying something about Crowley hearing. He must have known Crowley would be listening, but it got Aziraphale to pipe down. “How did they know where I was? Why were they _there_ of all places?” 

“You have a knack for ending up in situations,” Gabriel told him, still unconcerned. 

“_That is not an answer_.” 

“No.” Gabriel raised his voice. “I didn’t _ask demons_ to discorporate you. Don’t be so stupid. Calm down. Excuse me for not being overwhelmed with grief because you got a little roughed up by the adversary. Like you said: it could have been worse, and it wasn’t. I’m _happy_ you’re fine. I don’t want to spoil that by complicating my emotions.” 

After a second, when Aziraphale didn’t respond, he added: “I can’t believe you would think that about me. You know I only ever act in your best interest.” 

“It doesn’t feel like it.” Aziraphale was starting to sound wavery, seeming to realize he was about to lose the conflict. “It feels… Oh, it feels—” He broke off. 

“I don’t like arguing either,” Gabriel said. “I don’t like what it does to you. I don’t want you to say things you’ll beat yourself up over later. You don’t want that either.” 

Aziraphale didn’t say anything. Crowley turned off the tap.

“You’re worked up,” Gabriel told him, kindly enough. “Sit down. Let me get you comfortable. The night doesn’t have to be ruined.” 

“I feel all spun around, Gabriel. Can’t you just tell me what’s happening?” Crowley heard him sit on the bed. 

“There’s nothing to tell.” Gabriel began quietly undressing him. “There’s nothing for you to know.” 

“That’s not true. Strange things are happening.”

“Every day, everywhere,” Gabriel said. “It’s just happening here right now.” They were quiet again, and Crowley put his hand on the door knob. “Why don’t you call Crowley out? Huh? He can help me relax you.” 

“Oh, I feel terrible for making him stay while we bickered. Crowley, dear!” he called. Gabriel was neatly placing Aziraphale’s shoes under the chair which held their jackets and Aziraphale’s waistcoat. “I’m so sorry. Did you hear much of that?” 

“Erk.” He looked at Gabriel and decided: “No.”

“You must want to leave. I don’t blame you.” Aziraphale looked even more exhausted, even paler. Where Crowley had been impressed with his resolve just minutes before, Aziraphale was now completely worn down. 

“No, I’ll stay with you,” he said. He came to sit beside him. “Are you okay?” 

“Just embarrassed,” Aziraphale said, looking between him and Gabriel. Gabriel was pouring three glasses of the leftover whiskey, forgoing ice this time. 

“We’ve got it all figured out.” Gabriel smiled. He passed out drinks and sat on Aziraphale’s other side, his broad palm groping his thigh. “No one has to feel bad anymore. We can forget about the whole unpleasant mess. Chalk it up to you having a rough night. Right, Crowley?” 

Crowley felt his throat pinch. Aziraphale looked at him. Crowley tried not to notice. “Right.” 

Aziraphale blinked his eyes shut slowly. He turned and downed his drink. He stood to be away from them and put his glass down. Crowley finished his whiskey too, and placed his glass on the carpet, unwilling to move until bid. Gabriel took small sips, and he loosened his tie. 

When Aziraphale faced them again, he had a smile plastered on, although it was wobbly around the edges. “Why don’t you get started?” 

Gabriel looked over at Crowley. He patted his lap. Crowley, ever the glutton for punishment, patted his lap in return. At the very least, it made Aziraphale laugh, and that made Crowley’s stomach feel less like lead. Unfortunately, with his insides lighter, it was easier for them to flip, which they did when Gabriel caught him by the back of his neck and yanked him over. 

Half sprawled over his lap on his back, Crowley was very much helpless against being kissed. It took him a moment to relax enough to close his eyes, cradled in Gabriel’s arms like some sort of swooning heroine. Gabriel stopped after a few seconds, pulling away to take another sip of his drink. 

Taking off his sunglasses and tossing them up the bed, Crowley ventured a look at Aziraphale, who was standing at the table, gripping the edge. Crowley opened his mouth, maybe to say something reassuring, but all that came out was a choked groan. Gabriel had reached in between Crowley’s legs and cupped him, rubbing over his cock with his big hand. Crowley couldn’t help but squirm at that, and he barely even noticed Gabriel coming in for another taste of his mouth. 

“If you don’t want to come in this,” Gabriel rumbled against his lips, squeezing him meaningfully through his skintight spandex, “You should take it off.”

Crowley leaned up to be kissed again, because Gabriel kissed well and Crowley didn’t think he should punish himself. He zipped the costume down his chest, worked it down his arms with minimal help from Gabriel. When he pressed his hips up to finish unzipping, he had to battle Gabriel’s hand out of the way before he could shimmy the whole piece off. It fell on the floor by the discarded glass, and Aziraphale finally approached them to pick up the items, fold, and store them. Then he was back to the table.

Gabriel’s hand was warm around his cock, his mouth insistent, and Aziraphale was back at the table. The whining noise Crowley made in his throat got Gabriel to huff in amusement, stroke him firmer, but didn’t draw Aziraphale closer. Aziraphale poured himself another drink and stayed put. 

“Spread your legs a little more—like that.” Gabriel pulled back, taking his hand away for just a second so he could lick his palm. Crowley scrambled, gripping Gabriel’s shoulder to steady himself while his other hand tugged that sufficiently wet palm back to his cock, gripping around Gabriel’s wrist as he gripped around Crowley’s prick. “Aziraphale, do you want him to come so soon?” 

Aziraphale fiddled with the glass’s rim. “I don’t know.” 

“Do you want to lap his come off my fingers?” he asked, and when Crowley moaned, he glanced down, catching his yellow eye and winking. “Or I could wipe it off on your cunt. Fuck it in.” He twisted his wrist, making Crowley shoot his hips off the bed. Panting, Crowley looked and saw where a flush had struck Aziraphale high on his cheeks. Both hands were clasped around his whiskey. He took a jolting step forward, and then another one. He kneeled before the bed, and turned Crowley’s face toward his own. Crowley came as he was kissed. 

Hardly a second had gone by before Gabriel pushed Crowley off of him. He handed off his glass. Crowley finished it, snatched Aziraphale’s as well, and stowed them both to the side. Aziraphale was shoving his trousers and drawers down, pulling at his shirt as he climbed onto the bed and laid back. He parted his knees. 

Gabriel made good on his promise, thoroughly cleaning his hand against the soft pink folds and white blonde curls. He worked his own slacks down, just enough to get his cock out, and he pressed in. Aziraphale’s breath hiccuped, and he shifted his knees apart, accommodating Gabriel as he lay over him and thrust in. 

Crowley had no qualms with joining them on the bed, although he wasn’t sure if he should stay at the end by Gabriel or sit beside Aziraphale. With Gabriel covering his husband, Crowley figured he might as well hold back. Gabriel and Aziraphale weren’t kissing, but Gabriel was sucking his throat, burying his nose in that soft, pale neck. Crowley sat back and watched, a hand on his thigh, eyes on Azirapahle’s lax, bruised face. 

The fucking got deeper, sharper, and faster. Aziraphale sang his tight _oh oh oh_s but didn’t escalate. Gabriel finished inside of him with a grunt and a few brutal slaps of his hips. He slipped out, and Crowley watched Aziraphale reach down to touch himself where he must have been hot and aching. Crowley reached forward to check for himself. 

“I think lover boy wants to see,” Gabriel said. “Pull your legs up, sunshine, and let him look at your hole.” 

Aziraphale’s lips parted, and he looked between them with apprehension. Still, he settled on his back and hooked his hands under his knees. Crowley couldn’t breathe, didn’t dare to because Aziraphale was raising his hips, his face a bright pink as he showed off his wet and leaking cunthole. Crowley didn’t know what to look at: the spread of his fat thighs, the blush and sticky white of his pussy, the soft curves of his stomach and chest. When their eyes met, Aziraphale must have been far enough gone that Crowley was able to smile at him and get a smile back. Some part of this process made Crowley’s dick twitch. 

Gabriel got off the bed for a moment, retrieving something from the bathroom. Crowley, in the meantime, reached forward with two fingers, transfixed, spreading Azirapahle’s lower lips apart and playing with the mess. They both shivered. 

Sitting down beside his husband, Gabriel asked: “Do you want him to fuck you?” 

Aziraphale nodded, still on display.

“And what will I do while he does that?” Gabriel drew Aziraphale’s attention back. Aziraphale put his feet back down on the bed, much to Crowley’s dismay. 

Looking between them, Aziraphale bit his lip. “You could,” he started, and then decided to address Crowley instead. “Could he make love to you?”

Gabriel laughed as the blood in Crowley’s body quickly separated, thundering in his head and rushing to his sensitive prick. “Ngk. Gah. Yeah. I guess.” Crowley swallowed hard and Gabriel deposited the lube he’d grabbed into Aziraphale’s hands.

“Crowley, dear,” Aziraphale said sitting up. “Would you mind turning over?”

He did not mind, and he was on his hands and knees quicker than humanly possible. Aziraphale shuffled up behind him, and Crowley expected to hear the click of a cap and feel a cool press against his hole. But when he glanced over his shoulder, Aziraphale looked conflicted. He placed his small, pretty hand on Crowley’s cheek, thumb dipping down to trace over his taint and balls. As Crowley opened his mouth, so did Aziraphale, although he led with his tongue, licking a stripe up the trail he’d just burned and then over Crowley’s hole. 

Crowley gripped the bedspread, trying to keep his eyes on his friend while Aziraphale closed his own, lapping at him, first teasing with the tip of his tongue and then the broad. It was only then that he popped the lube open and slicked his fingers. 

Working one finger inside, Aziraphale was able to tug a little at Crowley’s rim and slip his tongue inside, which made Crowley’s whole system short circuit. He choked on the flood of saliva in his mouth, his eyes going wide, his hole clenching around Aziraphale’s tongue and finger. 

Aziraphale made to pull away, seemingly worried by Crowley’s gasping, but Crowley pushed back against him. “Don’t stop. Please,” he begged, white-knuckling the sheets to keep from reaching back and tugging his hair. 

“Hey, I think he likes it,” Gabriel laughed. 

Aziraphale worked a second finger in alongside his tongue and then muffled a surprised wail. His fingers jolted, knuckling against Crowley’s prostate, making him hang his head in an effort to stave off full collapse. 

“Honey, you’re leaking,” Gabriel explained. Crowley managed to look back for long enough to see that Gabriel was tickling Aziraphale’s clit, rubbing their seed against it. Aziraphale didn’t pull out, but he did pause for a moment, whining high and rocking his hips back to the touch. The grip he’d taken on Crowley’s thigh tightened as he rode Gabriel’s fingers. He got back to it, but he groaned the whole time. 

As he was scissoring in a third finger, Aziraphale came, moaning and finally pulling away to catch his breath. Crowley’s cock was hard again, and the prep had been solely because he wanted it rather than any sort of necessity. He urged Aziraphale to pull his hand away, and helped Aziraphale turn onto his front, chest against the bed and hips pressed up. 

“Do you want a minute?” Crowley asked softly, running a hand down Aziraphale’s flank while he panted and fluttered. Aziraphale shook his head. Crowley looked at his plump twat and the semen that was streaking down his thighs. He felt a little lightheaded, and he only felt more so when he started to guide his cock inside. Aziraphale was so hot there, so wet. There was no resistance, but it was snug. Aziraphale was already lowing in delighted agony when he was seated against him.

Gabriel’s hand grasped Crowley’s shoulder, bending him forward, shifting him inside Aziraphale enough that they both moaned. Gabriel’s cock was enormous, and Crowley had known that because he’d modeled his own to be a centimeter bigger. But inside of him, the stretch was almost too much physically and certainly too much emotionally. It felt good the same way swallowing an entire rat did. There was a sick pleasure to it, but it squirmed in his insides.

Crowley felt very unsure of how to move because it went against his better sense to rock himself on an archangel’s dick. Luckily, Gabriel was happy to move first, pumping his hips forward, knocking the breath out of Crowley and a sound out of Aziraphale. He set the pace, and Crowley followed his lead, pulling back with him and letting the force of his hips drive him into Aziraphale’s heat. 

“Angel, touch yourself—please, please, touch yourself—”

Aziraphale worked a hand under and cried out when he started petting his own clitoris. He sighed and trembled, constricting around Crowley’s cock much too sweetly. “Crowley,” he heaved, sounding lost. He took the hand away from his clit to grasp at Crowley’s fingers, tugging them away from his hip. 

Helping Aziraphale rub off changed his position, bent him over more, and Gabriel fucked them a little more brutally at that angle. He drove Crowley into Aziraphale even harder, and that combined with the fingers drove Aziraphale right over the edge again. Crowley, viced so tight inside of him, couldn’t help but come along. Gabriel must have as well, because he stopped pounding when Aziraphale started to wriggle under their combined weight. 

Gabriel pulled out first, and then Crowley. Come almost immediately started to seep out of Aziraphale, but his hips collapsed and he just lay there, completely spent. 

“I’ll get you a cloth,” Crowley said, but Aziraphale hadn’t let go of his hand yet and tugged him closer still. “No, stay,” he demanded. Crowley settled at his side and gave a look to Gabriel, who sighed and got up. He’d never gotten fully undressed. 

Aziraphale peeked an eye open at Crowley. “Would you kiss me?” he murmured.

“Of course,” Crowley said, scooting over, an arm slinging over his waist. “Why wouldn’t I?” 

“I put my mouth on—” Crowley peppered that mouth with the lightest press of his lips, which Aziraphale seemed too tired to return or deepen.

He fell asleep after a few more rounds, between getting cleaned up and settling against Crowley’s chest. Crowley felt like he might nod off too, Aziraphale warm against him, his whole body pleasantly sore. 

“Do you know why I’m okay with fucking a demon?” Gabriel asked from the other side of Aziraphale. He had a hand in his hair, stroking it softly, winding his fingers through the curls. 

“Because I make Aziraphale happy and I distract him,” Crowley hummed. 

“Because in a few days, you won’t exist.” 

Crowley opened his eyes slowly, not wanting to jump to any conclusions. “What?” 

“You wanted to know, so I’m telling you. The war’s almost here. Your kind is almost gone. You’d make a cute POW, but I can’t imagine you’re important enough.”

Crowley felt his heart pounding. His head was swimming. He no longer could breathe with Aziraphale against his chest. He couldn’t move. “The war,” he repeated.

“The big one. The one to _really_ end all wars.”

“But that would mean that an antichrist—”

“In Tadfield. That’s why we’re all here.” Gabriel smiled. He ran a hand down Aziraphale’s back. He gripped Crowley’s arm where it was still over Aziraphale’s waist. “Sometimes it’s better not to know, huh?”

Crowley ripped his arm away. He snapped without thinking, and he fell off the bed onto the hardwood floor of his flat in Glasgow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a continuation of the sex scene [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23287009) if you want it!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey fam, it's been a minute. [here's a reminder list of who the main original characters are](https://twitter.com/gigglesnortPro/status/1292534517060653056). hopefully that'll help keep things straight. thank you for your patience! 
> 
> as always, shoutout to [pinafortuna](https://twitter.com/_pinafortuna_) for reading this over for me
> 
> Also, one of the sex scenes later in the chapter (between Gabriel and Aziraphale) is upsetting. I don't think it's that much worse than the rest of the fic, but, you know, keep yourself safe

(Sunday)

Aziraphale was alone in bed, early in the morning, and he’d woken with a bit of a start. He hadn’t expected to fall asleep, so he felt surprised with himself. It was just that he’d been tired from the day, and it had felt good and warm to be held by Crowley. He had been allowed to press close, to breathe against his throat, his chest, the crook of his arm.

He no longer felt especially warm; they’d never gotten under the covers. Gabriel, fully clothed, sat beside him but not close. He looked serious, filling out some forms and then sending them off to where they needed to be. Aziraphale shifted a little, his fingers dipping down to touch his well-loved cunt, to bask in the heat it radiated after such a thorough use.

Gabriel had noticed the movement and put his work aside. “Good morning, sunshine,” he said, cupping Aziraphale’s full cheek, thumbing over his soft lower lip. “The world says hey.” 

Aziraphale snorted and stopped touching himself. “You really mustn’t try to quote things you haven’t seen.” He pushed up, looking for the clock. It was a little after 5:00. “Where’s Crowley?” 

“He popped out once you fell asleep,” Gabriel said, uninterested in the subject and therefore returning to his paperwork.

“Did he say when he would be coming back?” 

Gabriel hummed, like that was an answer, and then added as an afterthought, “I don’t think he’s coming back.” 

Those were the first pangs of discomfort for the day, and Aziraphale hadn’t even gotten out of bed yet. Crowley leaving wasn’t so unusual if he thought about it, but the way it nestled in his chest, between his ribs, made it particularly unpleasant. “What?” 

“He went off in a hurry, and he’s not in his room.” 

“But,” Aziraphale stammered, glancing around the room as if he might jump from the shadows. Every sign of Crowley was gone: his clothes, his shoes, his glasses. “He can’t have just left.” 

Gabriel shrugged. He signed his name with a flourish, and off went another form. 

“I’m sure he’ll return,” Aziraphale decided, because he had told Crowley they’d go away together after he talked to Gabriel, and it wasn’t fair for Crowley to hold sleeping against him. After all, Aziraphale had been more than understanding of his needs for rest, for recovery after making love, and for any number of other human inconveniences. 

“If you’re sure,” Gabriel said, obviously not listening. “Now that you’re awake, why don’t you come over here?” He lifted an arm for Aziraphale to tuck himself under. Gabriel didn’t look up from his work, and Aziraphale’s mind was moving so quickly, he cuddled up without another word. It certainly was warmer, and Gabriel’s shirt was soft enough. He smelled like he always did: the bright center of a star, charred white oak, cleanliness. 

But when Gabriel’s hand curled around his shoulder, he got a trace of sweet smoke. He turned his face into it, mouth parting, tongue lapping out at the pads of his fingers. He sucked the knuckle of Gabriel’s index finger into his mouth, regardless of the awkward angle, and sighed through his nose. There was a small sound in his throat, a little whine, that made Gabriel breathe a laugh. 

He pulled his hand away and swiped the saliva against Aziraphale’s jaw. Carefully, Gabriel put his work down and brought his right hand around his husband’s throat, thumb brushing just under one ear and middle finger resting under the other. Aziraphale swallowed against the hold, and Gabriel tightened his grasp just a bit before their eyes finally met. Even though the grip was light, Aziraphale felt it stirring something just below his navel. Gabriel leaned in, his breath hot against his cheek. 

“Are you still not satisfied?” he asked, which he often did. It was a little joke between them, if they could be said to have jokes. Aziraphale was never satisfied. Aziraphale was an open and wanting hole. 

“No, my dear,” Aziraphale admitted.

“My dear?” Gabriel asked, starting to lick at his pulse point. He kissed up, and asked Aziraphale to address him properly before chewing on his earlobe. 

“My husband,” he tried, which usually worked. Gabriel tugged hard, and he made a dismissive sound. “My love?” Aziraphale squirmed. Gabriel bit his neck, and then sucked over that spot, just under his thumb which still held Aziraphale in place. “My brother. My commander.” Aziraphale attempted to keep his voice steady, but Gabriel had reached down and was starting to pinch his nipple. “My guardian,” he said. 

Gabriel drew up, eyes blown and face darker—the only signs that he felt anything. He didn’t say it was correct, but he kissed Aziraphale’s mouth and rolled on top of him. He pressed against him, his cock rubbing against the soft thighs and hip below: a third sign of feeling. 

“My guardian. My glorious protector,” Aziraphale shuddered again, hoping to get fucked so he could close his eyes. Gabriel moved from his mouth to his chest, lapping at his nipples, pinching them when he couldn’t nurse. “You—you won’t let anything happen to me.” He shook, trying to think of something that wasn’t a lie and wasn’t bitter. “You gave me Crowley so I wouldn’t be lonely. Because you want me settled, even when I’m away from our home.” 

Groaning against him, Gabriel slid down, clearly intent on kissing him as the sun rose. Aziraphale whined, feeling frantic all of a sudden. “Darling, please settle me.” He wriggled under him, spreading his legs. Gabriel looked smug about it, which was fine because he unzipped his pants and pulled his cock out. He’d pulled up enough so that when Aziraphale looked down their bodies, he could see the thick, hooded head of it, its dark blush, one particular vein up the side. 

Aziraphale couldn’t help it, saliva pooling in his opening mouth. He remembered where that cock had last been, the way it had made Crowley jerk and whimper. The power of it, forcing Crowley even deeper inside of him, so hard and fast that Aziraphale could have sworn he felt that prick twitch against his walls. His eyes flashed up to Gabriel, who was watching his dissolution with amusement. 

“It’s been,” Aziraphale tried to say, but his voice stuck and he had to clear his throat and swallow. “It’s been so long since I’ve given you a proper morning hello.” 

“At least a week,” Gabriel agreed, now moving off of him, certain where it was going. 

“How thoughtless,” Aziraphale rambled, positioning himself between Gabriel’s knees. “How cruel of me. Oh, but I’ll—I’ll make it up to you. Let me—” He put his hand around the firm length and groaned. This close, he could smell Gabriel’s cock. Just like his fingers, Crowley’s scent lingered there. “Oh,” he wanted to cry. “Oh, how terrible. How very wonderful.” 

Instead of continuing to gasp in the smell of him or pressing his nose against the crease of Gabriel’s firm thigh, he opened his mouth. He relaxed his jaw. Even with Crowley gone, he could taste him. When Crowley came back, he’d explain to Gabriel how the best way to guard Aziraphale was to let him go away for just a little while. And then Aziraphale would do nothing but taste, straight from the source.

As he fucked his throat open and nourished that little fantasy of going off with Crowley, he felt satisfied.

* * *

He tried to keep Gabriel in bed as long as possible, but dawn came and Gabriel miracled on his clothes and nudged Aziraphale aside. 

“Duty calls, sunshine,” he said, and Aziraphale felt a spot of panic.

“Oh but… Couldn’t you stay a little longer?” He was still naked. His legs were parted, and he had fresh, wet love bites on his inner thighs. He hesitated. “It’s only that I wanted to ask you something.” 

Gabriel raised his eyebrows, looking generously impatient. 

“I was hoping Crowley would be back, because we had been talking about—or rather, he asked yesterday if he and I might leave Tadfield for a few days. Outside of my tiny run in with the demons, there have been some strange happenings. And I think going off might calm me down. And you’re always saying how that’s worthwhile: me being calm. So, it wouldn’t bother you too much, would it, darling?” 

“Crowley’s not coming back,” Gabriel stated. “I guess I didn’t make that clear. He popped out in a hurry. Seemed pretty antsy. Can’t imagine he’d risk returning just for you, if he’s already gone and it’s as _strange_ as you say it is.” Gabriel said that with a fond smile. _Look at Aziraphale_, he may as well have said, _wound up again_.

It was an additional blow on top of Crowley’s disappearance without so much as a farewell. “If he does come back,” Aziraphale tried to keep the strain he felt from his voice, “Do you mind if I go with him?” 

“I do,” Gabriel said. “I think you’re getting attached, which is pretty dumb. But, as always, you _can_ do what you want. I’ve never been able to get upset with you for making your choices. But my feelings might get hurt.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Aziraphale said instead of _Is that all?_

“Give me a kiss before I go.” 

Aziraphale crawled to the edge of the bed and shuffled onto his knees. He pressed up and Gabriel leaned down, and their mouths met somewhere in the middle. Gabriel’s big hands cradled his cheeks and held him in place when he finally pulled back. “Be _good_,” Gabriel demanded, and Aziraphale’s stomach rolled.

* * *

Aziraphale knocked on Crowley’s door and, when he heard no one inside, miracled the lock open. All of Crowley’s stuff was gone. Even more strange, the room smelled like it had just been cleaned, or like Crowley had never been there in the first place. Aziraphale did a quick search of the room, but it made him feel disheartened after only a minute.

He shut and locked the door behind himself, checking around the lobby instead. He asked the front desk if Mr. Crowley had checked out, and they said he hadn’t, although Aziraphale supposed that a big, famous actor might not be used to doing such things for himself. 

He was considering if he should bother going to the cafe bakery when Will called his name and met him by the doors. 

“I didn’t expect to see you up and about,” he said, smiling.

“Why not?” 

Will shrugged. “You and Crowley don’t have to be on set until the afternoon. The lady playing the fairy just came in, and we’re filming most of her scenes this morning. Besides,” Will looked a little more serious. “Ezzy thought it might be good for you to get some rest.” 

Aziraphale had been opening his mouth to ask if Will had seen Crowley but the statement caught him off guard, and his brow scrunched up involuntarily. 

“Because of,” and Will made a vague gesture at his own face. He meant to reference Aziraphale’s face and the fact that it was still bruised and moderately swollen. Aziraphale had nearly forgotten. 

“It’s really nothing,” he said. “Have you seen Crowley anywhere?” 

“He’s not with you?”

“I can’t seem to find him, and his room—well, it’s been packed up.” Aziraphale tried to keep his tone light. “I was wondering if you might have heard something. Or perhaps if you could contact him with your mobile?” 

“Do you not have his number?” Will looked even more incredulous. Aziraphale was losing his patience.

“I don’t have a mobile,” he said as politely as he could. 

“Of course,” Will said, digging his cellular telephone out of his back pocket. It looked very small in his huge hands. “I don’t have his number, but I’ll call Mara,” who he apparently had queued up because in the next second, he was pressing the device to his ear and it was ringing. “Hey, Mara... Whoa, where are you? Listen, have you heard anything from Crowley?... _Crowley_. No—Jesus!” Even Aziraphale could hear the dial tone. Again, he felt his skin starting to crawl, his heart twinging. 

“Did she hang up?” he asked.

“No, we got disconnected.” Will tried calling again, but this time it didn’t go through at all. “Shit,” he said. “Me and my crew gotta head out soon anyway.” He shoved his phone away, glowering. “Why don’t I drive you in? You can use one of my crew’s phones, assuming their service works. Or, you know, you can talk to Mara in person.” 

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said “I appreciate that.” He didn’t think he’d ever ridden in a van before, so at least that was a new experience. And having a goal in mind felt much better than accepting that Crowley was long gone.

* * *

At the shoot location, lakeside in the sunny woods, Aziraphale wrung his hands while Mara explained that, no, she hadn’t heard from Crowley, but that cell service for everyone in the crew had become spotty. 

Warlock, overhearing, snorted. “There’s no reason for everyone to be on their phones anyway! Not now!” He had Dog scooped up under one arm, the creature's dirty paws kicking and swaying as Warlock dashed over to Adam. Aziraphale thought something very uncharitable about the boy: just days ago, Crowley had gone to such lengths to fix his mobile! “Would you give me his number? I might try to call him from a phone box, or the hotel?” 

Mara hesitated, and Aziraphale might have laid his influence on a little thick. “Okay,” she said. “But you should talk to Ezzy before you run off. She might know more than me.” She wrote the number down for him. 

“Should we be worried that we can’t contact anyone? How are we going to coordinate the production?” Will asked. 

“Ezzy’s going to have me look into it once she gets back with Ms. May. She picked her up from the airport in Oxford. Don’t let anyone know, but she insisted on doing it herself. She’s a big fangirl or something.” Mara lowered her voice and forced some levity. She was trying to cheer everyone up, which was clearly one of the jobs Ms. Volk had left her with. Aziraphale winced a smile as best he could with his heart thundering and his head growing muggier by the second. 

Will set him up by the refreshments, handing him a hot, styrofoam cup of tea. Aziraphale stood silently and tried to remember the names of everyone in the crew and any other distinguishing characteristics, eyes following each, one by one, as the bag of Earl Grey steeped. 

“Everything okay, Mr. Aziraphale?” the average-looking young man asked, awkwardly hovering at his side so he could get at the small packaged cereals on the table. One of his shoes was untied, and Aziraphale considered bringing it to his attention. 

“Mr. Pulsifer,” he greeted, moving aside. “Did everything with the prop that dog found work out?”

“Er,” the young man stalled. “I don’t think it was a prop.” He quickly retracted that, substituting: “I don’t think it was one of _our_ props. It wasn’t something we’d make. We don’t bother to put,” and here he grimaced, “_Realistic insides_ on our models. People don’t usually need models for that, so it would seem like a waste.” 

“I see. But your props are all in good order?”

“Uhh, well…” A car was approaching, enough to provide him a reprieve from answering. 

“You have to excuse me,” Aziraphale said, planning to get whatever information he could from the director and then go try the nearest regular telephone. 

Ms. Volk got out from the driver’s seat, and a dark-haired woman in glasses and a blue coat popped out from the back. The young woman and Ms. Volk met around the car at the same time, both reaching for the door handle simultaneously. Ms. Volk deferred, and the young woman opened the door, offering a hand to assist the woman in the back as she got out carefully. Steadying her charge, the young woman walked the old woman slowly toward the rest of the crew, talking quietly. Ms. Volk waved him over.

“Aziraphale,” she said, smiling. The expression made her look unusually soft and young. “This is—”

“Miss Carol May,” Aziraphale realized in a rush. “It really is such an easy name to remember.”

Ms. May, who had become regal if a bit shrunken in her age, grinned. She had also become mostly blind, Aziraphale could now see, which probably explained her young escort. “How wonderful it is to meet you once more.” 

“Mr. Aziraphale,” she said. “Fischer never quite forgot about you. You don’t seem a day older.” She sounded suspicious. 

“Nor do you, my dear.” 

She snorted but she was amused enough to let it go. “This is my warden.” She gestured to the young woman, who tutted but didn’t seem actually offended. 

“I’m her nurse. Anathema Device.” She shot her hand out to be shaken, a truly American accent on the gesture. Aziraphale lightly took that hand, which twitched against his, tightening all of a sudden as her face pulled. Like she had felt something. Aziraphale quickly extracted himself.

“Lovely to meet you,” he said, a little high as she stared after him, a deep frown settling in on her face. “Ms. Volk, might I have a word? 

Her face fell. “Sure,” she said. Aziraphale did hate to force another problem on her, but he wasn’t sure what else to do except keep standing by the refreshment table and wait around. “Ms. May—I mean, Carol. Why don’t you head over to costuming? I’ll send Mara to go over the scene with you.” She pointed to where she meant for Anathema’s sake.

“You haven’t heard from Crowley, have you?” he asked, once everyone was sorted.

“No, why?” 

“He seems to be gone.” 

“He’s missing?” Ms. Volk hissed.

“No!” Aziraphale peeped. “Not _missing_! It’s only that I don’t know where he is, and his room was packed up this morning. Gabriel told me that he left, but I was just hoping to contact him.” 

“Your husband Gabriel?”

“Ahh.” Aziraphale stopped and cleared his throat, heating. “Yes, well. It’s not that I’m worried, per se. I was just wondering if he had left a message for me with anyone, or if anyone had heard anything. I thought I should ask before going off to call him.” 

The Young Pulsifer made some sort of squawking sound from across the set and drew the entire crew’s attention. An attempt to walk from catering to his uncle and the props was thwarted by his shoelace and maybe a bit of uneven ground. He was destined to land on his face, but Ms. Device moved forward, catching him in her arms. His cheek pressed against her buttoned-up chest, glasses askew, hands desperately clutched around her forearms, then biceps, as he tried to right himself. 

His face was a deep, almost painful red. “You’re really strong,” he croaked out, loud enough for everyone to hear. 

Ms. Device set him on his feet, although she didn’t take her hands away from his sides. “I work out.” She was smiling. Aziraphale didn’t feel it was appropriate for him to have seen any of that and was grateful when Ms. Carol May called her nurse’s attention back. 

“Yeah,” Ms. Pulsifer blurted out, a bit too late. Ms. Device sent him a grin over her shoulder. 

“Really,” Aziraphale huffed. “It’s like they’re announcing it to everyone.” 

Ms. Volk looked at him sharply, closely. “Are you joking?” she asked.

“What?” he asked.

“Wow, nevermind. I don’t know where Crowley is, and I have half a mind to fire him for violating his contract and taking off. For his sake, I hope he’s just taking the morning off. Please pass that information along, if you get ahold of him.”

“Right,” Aziraphale nodded. 

“Oh my God,” he heard someone scream. “What is that?” 

Aziraphale watched Ms. Volk’s head whip around, following her gaze to the water. She took a step backward, a hand coming to cover her mouth. He almost laughed. He’d read about people doing that but hardly saw it in person. “_The Lake Monster._” 

Not so far away, Warlock was crowing something, his mouth open in awe. Adam, who was a little closer to the lake than safe, had a very serious look on his face, like he was evaluating the monster for flaws. Aziraphale finally took in the disoriented, moaning mass of skin and tentacles.

He took an abrupt step back and he heard the young Mr. Pulsifer whisper a harsh: “That’s not our prop!” 

Indeed, it was not. That was the Kraken.

Aziraphale thought his head was spinning, or perhaps he was very still and it was the world which had tilted off its axis. 

The beast was very much too big for the lake it had suddenly risen from, the water displacing and flooding up the bank. Looking very unhappy to have been pulled there from wherever it had been, the Kraken’s arms were flailing and its body towered above the trees. It glared down at the rapidly scattering crew.

Ms. Volk froze beside him, pale and trembling. “No,” she said. “This cannot be happening.” 

Mara was on her cell phone, although Aziraphale was sure he had no idea who she might be trying to call. Janae did her best to drag Warlock away, who had gone opposite everyone else and dashed toward the lake. Dog ran between the boys, yapping along with the excitement. Adam however was unmoved, still just watching.

Aziraphale finally noticed his own hands shaking as he thought about what event the Kraken was supposed to accompany. At least now he knew what Gabriel was doing in Tadfield. 

“I think we ought to leave,” he said, a little distantly. 

“Oh?” Ms. Volk said, her voice an aria of nerves. 

“Yes. Out of Tadfield.” It didn’t matter. “Out of England.” He nearly laughed. 

The Kraken bellowed again with his discomfort. He’d start smacking down trees and people if Aziraphale didn’t do something. But what was he to do? Miracle him to a different pond?

Mara was at their side then, speaking in frantic gibberish. Aziraphale clutched his hands tightly in front of him. He couldn’t feel much of anything, but that was likely for the best.

“I want to stay and watch!” Warlock yelled. “It’s a real life lake monster!” 

“_Warlock_!” his governess hissed, clearly at her limit.

“Why don’t we get a spot of breakfast?” Aziraphale hummed. “I know a wonderful little cafe in town. Do you remember, Warlock?” 

Warlock nodded, saying to Adam, who still wasn’t really looking at anyone: “It’s where we got those little cakes.”

“Yes, the petit fours.” Aziraphale nodded. 

“Do you think there’d be more?” he asked, now mostly distracted from the monster. 

“I’d say it’s worth a check.”

* * *

There were more, along with strudel and cream and Bakewell pudding. There was spanakopita, for anyone who might feel sweet was not appropriate after such events. Coffee and tea had already been made and were steaming on the counter, the baker’s niece staring at them as if she weren’t quite sure why she’d made so much. 

Ms. Device, in her American way, pushed some tables together and then helped Miss May into her seat at the head. She sat down beside her, and the Young Pulsifer sat across. Janae and Mara had left, Janae heading to the pub the moment Warlock was seated at Aziraphale’s side—as if Aziraphale was an appropriate substitute guardian! He had no idea where Mara was off to, only that she took Will with her. He hoped they were going to do something nice, like make love or get lunch in the city. 

As the baker took orders and the niece distributed mugs, Ms. Device took off her blue coat, her button-down shirt hugging her broad shoulders, neatly rolled up her sturdy forearms. Her waist, a slight curve, was thick still, and Aziraphale heard the way Mr. Pulsifer choked, making it clear that the tan slacks which held tight at her hips and strained over her thighs had not gone unnoticed. Aziraphale looked from those thighs, which he recognized as truly remarkable, to Pulsifer’s face. He was pink, his mouth wet, and his eyes wide. As distasteful as such a display was in public, Aziraphale couldn't help but urge them toward each other in his small way. After all, there truly was no time like the present, and one ought to have someone to cling to at the end of things.

There was a sharp breath, a surprised inhale, and Aziraphale found Ms. Device staring at him sharply, like she had felt his push. She settled more firmly in her seat, and Aziraphale tried to shrink without acknowledging guilt. 

Ms. Volk had her head in her hands. She hadn’t looked up since she’d sat.

Adam finally spoke. “That was a real monster.” 

“Oh, who’s to say?” Aziraphale murmured, and the baker’s niece came out with the first round of pastries. Dog even got a bit of toast, likely day-old, set on the floor on a dish. 

“‘Who’s to say?’” Ms. Device narrowed her eyes. “What do you mean by that?”

“Certainly nothing.” Aziraphale was sure he didn’t sound very convincing “Could be a prank. Or psychedelics in the water.” Ms. Volk groaned. “Either way, perhaps we all should contact our loved ones and make plans to get out of Tadfield. Spend time with them instead.” 

“What are you talking about?” Warlock asked around a self-made petit four sandwich. 

“Oh, do close your mouth, dear boy.” Aziraphale looked around as if Janae might materialize (or _Crowley_). Warlock frowned, but he did close his mouth to finish chewing. 

“It was a real fairy,” Ms. Volk moaned.

The niece conveniently came out with the bottle of brandy the baker kept in the back. She handed it to Aziraphale without knowing why. 

“Miss May, can I interest you in a nip?” he asked, voice light.

“Finally,” she said, pushing her cup forward. 

“Carol,” Ms. Device tried to say and was thoroughly waved off.

“I never thought I’d be in a production more cursed than Fischer’s _Way Home_,” she teased. Aziraphale laughed as good naturedly as possible. 

“Where is Mr. Crowley?” Warlock asked. 

Aziraphale shifted, swallowing. He felt a pang in his ribcage, although he couldn’t say where. That would be admitting too much. It was good Crowley had left—but it didn’t really matter. “I don’t know. He left.” 

“Without you?” Adam asked. “I would never leave my friends like that. And you two seemed like friends.” 

“Yeah,” Warlock said. “He gave you that hickie, so unless you’ve started to really bring him down with your nagging, I don’t know why he’d leave you.” 

“What charming boys,” Miss May said.

“I should head back to my uncle. He’s probably trying to get things in order,” Mr. Pulsifer said. He made no move, looking at the striking woman across from him. The way he felt for her, Aziraphale could tell, was so desperate, aching. It made everything feel a little more difficult.

“How fine the weather is today,” he remarked to Miss May, his hands tight around the mug. The sun was indeed shining, the trees swaying in the slight breeze just out the window, and Aziraphale had always appreciated when literature afforded the doomed one final glimpse of beauty. “Maybe a picnic?” he hummed, half to himself. “With wine. Or we could listen to music.” And at the word, music started creeping in slowly, as if there were an orchestra in the cafe, growing louder and louder.

“What are you doing?” Ms. Device hissed.

“It’s through my mobile,” Aziraphale murmured; he’d heard people say that before. A flute came in, and his heart swelled, and suddenly he was choking. 

At the same time Ms. Device said “That is _not_ your cellphone,” he was gasping, his eyes filling with tears. He pushed up to his feet, stumbling away from the table.

“Is this a very sad song?” Warlock asked in a hush.

“It’s a seduction,” Aziraphale tried to say, maybe even managed, as he reeled. The music stayed in the cafe as he stepped outside, taking a deep breath of air—some of the last air!—and closed his eyes under an almost cloudless sky. “Oh, God,” he trembled. He could still hear the music, faintly. He had to go back in and listen. He wasn’t likely to hear it ever again. There was no need for any seductions in Heaven.

What had been the point of making all those birds, he almost thought, but he didn’t. He did think that he’d been on earth for over 6,000 years, and still he hadn’t gotten his fill of birds or of fish or dogs or snakes or humans—and, oh, his heart squeezed. He couldn’t think of humans. 

Without thinking, he blessed the bakery. He blessed the people inside of it. He blessed the angry-looking man across the road and his perfectly round, little dog. For good measure, he magnified the Bolero, letting it fill the streets, because everyone should hear it. While the old man startled and jerked his dog into his arms, as if something were attacking them, Aziraphale sprouted out of season, out of region, out of species blossoms on the trees, in the bushes, over the grass.

“What are you doing?” someone asked behind him, or maybe: “What are you?” 

Aziraphale manifested his wings, preparing himself for the old Be Not Afraid. He was going to tell everyone. They should know what was about to happen, especially when there was nothing they could do but enjoy their last days.

His wings weren’t behind him. 

He snapped his fingers, but nothing happened. The music stopped abruptly, and then blooms shriveled. He tried to bring them back and could not, because he’d been cut off again.

“Drat,” he said, and Ms. Device grabbed his shoulder, jerking him around.

“You’re not the Beast,” she said, fist tight on his jacket. Aziraphale could now see that everyone in the cafe was gawking at him. Adam had even poked his head out the door. 

“Terribly sorry.” Aziraphale managed a smile. “I don’t know what came over me. How embarrassing.”

“What’s the Beast?” Adam asked. 

“What are you?” Ms. Device’s hands shook from the strain. 

“Nothing now, I’m afraid.” He covered her hand with his own.

She took a step forward, her brow furrowed, her head shaking, “If you are involved, if you know the Beast—”

“What’s the Beast?” Adam repeated. “Do you mean the lake monster?”

Ms. Device snapped her mouth shut with a click. “No,” she said, and she turned around to go back in the cafe. Aziraphale watched her collect her coat and then Miss May, who didn’t seem quite happy to go. 

Adam came out fully and took the place in front of Aziraphale, looking up at him. Aziraphale didn’t know what to say, so he asked: “Does your mother know where you are?” 

“Yes,” he said, “I called her.”

“You have cell service?” Warlock piped, coming to join them, Dog in his arms. “My phone won’t even play games.” 

“Do you want to borrow it?” Adam asked his friend, who shook his head.

“I don’t know who I’d call,” he said, and then looked at Aziraphale. “Are you a magician?” he asked. “I had a magician at my birthday party last year, and what you did was much cooler!” 

“Oh, I doubt it!” Aziraphale larked. He thought about asking Adam to borrow the phone, but the last thing he wanted was to bring Crowley back to what would be the center of the end. Even if it had never meant anything, Aziraphale had decided to protect him. More than that, Aziraphale worried what sort of hysteria might happen if he were to hear Crowley’s voice again. No, he couldn’t bear it. 

“We’re leaving,” Ms. Device announced, Miss May at her side and Mr. Pulsifer searching his pockets for his car keys. Aziraphale looked inside; Ms. Volk was still collapsed at the table. 

“Mr. Aziraphale, it was a pleasure.”

“You as well, Miss May,” he returned absently, and the little group stepped down the walk. Pulsifer gave Aziraphale a wide berth, asking in frantic tones once they were past just _what_ that had been about.

* * *

“I don’t understand,” Ms. Volk was muttering as they came back in. The baker’s niece brought out another mug of tea, and two glasses of milk for the boys. “The things I saw — what I’ve seen _you_ do.” She finally looked up.

“Unfathomable,” Aziraphale supposed. 

“Why can’t you fix it, then?” she asked. “Whatever it is, just fix it. Like the woman in your hospital room. Just fix it.” 

Aziraphale looked at the wall clock. It was only noon. It was only noon, and in no time it would be dinner, and then night, and then a long stretch of day forevermore. “I can’t.”

“Bullshit,” Ms. Volk hissed with no regard for the children, who were admittedly more engrossed in recounting the last two hours in whispers. 

“It’s bigger than I am, or I—” He stopped himself before his mouth got him in trouble. Even if he could do something, it was The Great Plan. Gabriel had been talking about it since that night so long ago, when he’d sidled beside Aziraphale at a taberna, his whole being alight with annunciatory bliss. _Hark_, he’d breathed against Aziraphale’s ear, an arm curling around his waist, _and I’ll tell you what She’s got in store_.

Ms. Volk helped herself to the hot tea on the table. The baker slapped a handwritten check on the table, and Aziraphale took out his credit card. He looked out the window for any sign of Janae; they couldn’t stay in the bakery for much longer but he wasn’t sure where to take children on a day like this. 

“She was saying something about a Beast,” Adam said. 

Warlock frowned. He picked Dog up and let the creature sit on his lap, idly playing with its ear. “That’s funny,” he said.

“You’re not laughing.” Adam sat back down.

“You know when you haven’t thought about something for a long time, and then you think of it, and then someone brings it up all on their own? Like the whole world remembered it with you and now it’s all anyone will talk about?” 

“I guess so,” Adam said. 

“It’s just—” Warlock hesitated, looking between Aziraphale and Adam. He glanced at Ms. Volk, although she had stopped paying attention again. “It’s a personal affair, so I can’t say much. But when I was young, I had these imaginary friends, I guess. They weren’t friendly, but I don’t know another word for them. And they told me about the Beast, sort of.” It was the slowest Aziraphale was certain the boy had ever spoken, each word chosen with care. “I hadn’t thought about it until a few days ago. And now that funny woman mentions the Beast.” 

Warlock shook himself out of his daze and grabbed one of the remaining petit fours. “Of course, there are obviously many beasts, like the one in the lake, and Dog here. And all of that was just make believe. I’ve always had a very strong imagination. It’s why I’m such an accomplished actor.” 

“What did your imaginary friends say about the Beast?” Adam asked. 

“It’s stupid.” 

“I don’t think it’s stupid.” 

Warlock frowned again. “You haven’t even heard it yet. And it wasn’t even real,” he said, glancing at Aziraphale. 

Adam rephrased. “I don’t think I’ll think it’s stupid.” 

So Warlock thought about it, petting Dog with deep focus. “They said I was the Beast and that I’d bring eternal darkness to the world.” 

No one laughed, although Aziraphale felt his stomach do something funny. The baker came back out with a receipt and his card, and Aziraphale tipped generously. 

“Why’d they say that?” Adam asked.

“It wasn’t real,” Warlock reminded them quickly. “I was young, and it scared me, but I saw the right doctors and got straightened out after an overnight observation at the hospital. I just needed to learn the consequences of being caught up in make believe.” 

“What were your friends like?” Aziraphale watched him carefully. “Did they mean to frighten you?” 

“They weren’t _real_,” Warlock repeated, his voice rising. Dog shifted on his lap and licked his face. “I was only five or six. I can barely remember. It’s just a dumb kid thing.” 

Aziraphale didn’t really believe Warlock would end the world, even if he were the antichrist, but he also didn’t understand children very well. But if it wasn’t just a coincidence, he’d feel better knowing who was calling the shots tomorrow. 

“We saw a real life monster today,” Adam pointed out. “So maybe more things are real than we thought.” 

Warlock sighed. “I called one the Lizard, because he had one on his head. The other was Toad. They were both so mean, and they smelled awful like — like — ”

“Something rotting?” Aziraphale offered, wringing his hands under the table. Warlock nodded, and Aziraphale’s heart twinged. A child, barely out of infancy, being visited by demons. It was almost too much. 

“They told me I would rule the earth,” Warlock continued. Now that he had started, there seemed to be no stopping the words. They must have built up over the years. “One of the doctors told my mother that meant I had high ambition which is why she’s so invested in my career. The Lizard and Toad said it would happen right after I turned 11; that’s actually why I was thinking of them. That, and I thought I could smell them in a couple of places. You don’t think I’m actually the Beast, do you?”

“I don’t know,” Adam said without a pause. “Do you want to be?”

“I could clean up the world, make people better!” he said, and then shook his head. “But I don’t want to bring eternal darkness or destroy the world. _The Good Place_ hasn’t even finished yet.” 

The door opened, and Janae walked in. The conversation died there, she collected the boys, and thanked Aziraphale. “I’ll drop Adam off at home and then Warlock and I are going to catch a ride back to the Estate.”

Warlock held Dog closer to him. “No,” he said. “We’re not finished filming! I still have another two weeks here!” 

“I can’t reach your mother, Warlock,” she said, “And I wasn’t hired to take on the Leviathan, so we’re heading back. You understand, Ezzy.” 

“Yes,” she said, waving them off. “Consider the shoot canceled. Go home.” 

“_No!_” Warlock refused to get up. “I won’t go! I want to stay here!” 

“Everyone get out!” the baker finally said. “Get out, get out. You’re making a scene.” 

“There’s no other customers!” Warlock shouted. “And I’m not finished!” He forced another petit four into his mouth, making a show of chewing.

“You’ll make yourself sick,” Janae told him. 

“You make me sick!” 

“How about I escort Adam and Warlock to the Youngs’,” Aziraphale stood, straightening his jacket for want of something to do with his hands. “And you can pop over to Oxford? I’m sure you’ll be able to phone whoever you like out in the city. And the boys can spend some time together.” 

Janae considered it. Aziraphale thought the act was rather tiresome, seeing that she hadn’t given it a second thought when she’d left Warlock in his care an hour ago. “Yes, fine. Straight to the Youngs. I’ll call your mother, and we’ll leave tomorrow unless she insists we get home tonight. Okay?” 

“Yes, fine,” Warlock snipped. Janae pursed her lips and exhaled through her nose. 

Ms. Volk stood up shakily, pushing away from the table. “I should go with you,” she said. “Call my producers. Call the studio. I’ll call Crowley for you, if you like.” 

Aziraphale smiled. “That won’t be necessary. Production is canceled, after all.” 

She considered asking something else, shifting her weight. “Your husband?”

“No. We really should leave before the baker calls the authorities on us. Come along, boys. Good afternoon.” 

“You have a husband?” Warlock gawped, although he followed out of the bakery without any hesitation. “Does Mr. Crowley know?” 

“Yes, I do. Yes, he does.” Aziraphale started down the sidewalk. He paused and looked back. “I’m afraid I don’t remember where your house is, Adam.”

“This way,” he said, taking the lead. Dog joined him in the front.

“Does your husband know about Mr. Crowely?” Warlock at least didn’t look angry or horrified, which some might. 

“Yes.” 

Warlock hummed, thinking it over. “I suppose that’s good, that everyone knows. My mother doesn’t know—”

But there was a surge of energy, not too far away, and a flutter just behind them. Aziraphale turned around without meaning to. “Sandalphon.” 

“Is that your husband?” Warlock whispered unquietly. 

“Children.” Sandalphon’s smile got sharper, more golden. Aziraphale fought an urge to shove the boys behind him. “How nice. What are you doing with children, Aziraphale?” 

“I’m walking them home. What are you doing here?” He tried to ask it like he wasn’t very invested in the answer. 

Sandalphon’s eyebrows raised. He stepped closer, and Aziraphale did come slightly in front of Warlock, just in case. “Why do you think I’m here?” He watched Aziraphale’s face closely, his amusement gentle and concealing something else. 

Aziraphale didn’t even think about Warlock. Why would he? Certainly Sandalphon wouldn’t have been sent for a simple child. “To—” he floundered. “To reprimand me.” 

“Oh!” Sandalphon’s face broke into a glowing smile. “Have you done something to deserve a reprimand? Gabriel hadn’t mentioned—I’m sure he’d prefer to handle you himself. He always has.” And there was a lingering in the words and maybe in Sandalphon’s gaze. Aziraphale ignored it; he always did. “I’m here for the Leviathan. It’s not in the right place.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale nodded. “Of course.” 

“You’re not quite that important,” Sandalphon said with ease.

“Of course,” Aziraphale repeated, relieved. “I have been wondering,” he rushed before Sandalphon could leave. “Why was there a mixup with location?”

Sandalphon had lost patience. “Maybe you should ask your boyfriend. Certainly none of us know.”

“Oh, but—” Aziraphale doubted Gabriel knew anything either, and he was more likely to tell Sandalphon than Aziraphale anyway.

“I’ll be seeing you,” Sandalphon said, already turned and on his way.

“Why does he think Mr. Crowley knows about the lake monster?” Adam asked, startling Aziraphale more than he rationally should have. 

“Oh, no, that’s not what he meant.” Aziraphale sent a smile to both boys. “Let’s get a wiggle on. I’m sure your mother is wondering after you.”

* * *

After the boys were delivered home, Mrs. Young talked Aziraphale into staying with a cup of hot cocoa and baby pictures—two things Aziraphale wouldn’t be allowed ever again.

“This was the convent he was born in,” she said, her neat hands pressing the pages of a scrapbook. The exterior looked very typical for a convent, but especially familiar in a way that suggested Aziraphale had visited it once, maybe for a blessing years ago. 

“I was born in a convent like that!” Warlock said, mostly to Adam, who grinned. “We could be brothers!” 

“Here’s Mr. Young and Adam. He nearly cried, poor man. He always says he didn’t, but I have the evidence. Look how small Adam was!” The babe was indeed small, swaddled in his father’s arms. Mr. Young’s face was soft and red. “And here’s all of us together. The sister took this one—Sister Mary Something.” 

“How lovely,” Aziraphale hummed, hands warmed by the mug. Mrs. Young took him through first birthdays and first visits to the sea and first friends.

Adam, Warlock, and Dog all went outside to run about a little later, and Aziraphale stayed right on the couch, watching Adam grow until this most recent birthday. Mrs. Young idly chatted with him while affixing the newest pictures to blank pages. 

“Of course we have the pictures online as well. But I used to do this with my mother, and it feels more permanent than Facebook,” she said. She and Aziraphale carefully inspected a picture of Adam with Mr. Young, laughing near the grill. “He doesn’t look much like his father. But he looks like me. I mean, I think he looks like me. Don’t you think?”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Although he’d never actually considered it. But if the boy came from her, they must look something alike. 

Teatime came and went with package biscuits and a feeling that he might start crying again.

“Will you stay for dinner?” Warlock asked. 

“I really shouldn’t impose.” 

“Nonsense!” Mrs. Young said, pulling ground meat out of the icebox to thaw. 

“Well—” There was a sharp knock on the door, which Adam and Warlock tripped over each other to answer. “—if you’re sure it’s no trouble.”

“Hi there, champs,” Gabriel said from the door. “Can you fetch Aziraphale for me?”

“Who are you?” Adam asked, but Aziraphale was already out of his chair and hurrying to the front door. 

“Gabriel,” he said, nervous beyond reason. “Darling,” he croaked. 

“That’s his husband,” Warlock said, and the two boys moved aside to let Aziraphale through but didn’t leave the room.

“He looks fake,” Adam said, trying to whisper.

“Like plastic surgery?”

“I don’t know, maybe.”

“Cute.” Gabriel's smile fell. Aziraphale plastered one on in response. “Can I talk to you?” 

“Of course,” Aziraphale rushed and didn’t move.

“Can I come in?” Gabriel asked after a moment. 

Aziraphale looked at Warlock and Adam, who blinked in unison back at him. “Let’s go back to the hotel.” 

Gabriel turned. “Fine. Let’s go.” 

“Oh, but—” he hadn’t even said goodbye, but Gabriel wasn’t stopping. He glanced back to Adam. “Tell your mother thank you for me?” Adam shrugged. 

“You’re _going_ with him? He’s a prat,” Warlock told him.

“Aziraphale!” Gabriel called over his shoulder, and Aziraphale stepped out and shut the door.

“I don’t see why you didn’t tell me,” Aziraphael started, jogging to catch up with him.

“So you could pull a stunt like the one you did earlier? Yeah, I don’t think so, sweetheart.” Gabriel eyed him coolly, but he slowed down some.

“Clearly you had no trouble stopping me before I went too far.”

“You doing anything was going too far,” Gabriel reminded him. “And now you’re being pissy which is such a drag and exactly what I wanted to avoid. We’re supposed to help each other. You knowing doesn’t help literally anyone at all.” Aziraphale didn’t know what to say to that, so he kept his mouth shut. “When we get back to the hotel, I am going to _kindly_ ask that you stay put until everything’s started. And then you’ll go straight Upstairs.” He put a hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, and then they were back in their room.

* * *

“There’ll be a war,” Gabriel explained. “It shouldn’t last very long. You don’t need to fight. I don’t want you to fight. I know it doesn’t suit you.”

“But warming your bed suits me?” It was the wrong thing to say, and Aziraphale flinched a little at himself. 

Gabriel’s mouth twisted in in a fast, displeased twitch. “Don’t waste my time with an argument,” he said. “We’ll have plenty of time to argue later and, fortunately, no reason to.” 

“I won’t suddenly be happy.”

“I’ll make you happy.” When Gabriel smiled this time, it was kind and warm. He reached out and placed his hand on Aziraphale’s hip. “The Earth was never good for you. Too much happening all the time. It’s too confusing down here. I should have brought you home ages ago. But I know you like this place, and I’ve never excelled at denying you.” He stood even closer, clearly believing that his being near could be a comfort. “It’ll take some adjustment, but you’ll be happy soon. I’ll be with you the whole time.” 

There was that pinching in Aziraphale’s chest again, and a lightness in his head. Gabriel was crowding him toward the bed. He was laying Aziraphale down. 

“Just a quickie before I go back, huh? You’ll feel better. And then you can order all the room service you want and watch some TV. You could even find something Crowley was in and touch yourself to it.” Aziraphale gasped out a wet laugh as Gabriel removed the rest of his clothes. Gabriel settled on top of him and pushed in, his mouth by Aziraphale’s ear, breath cloying. 

There would never be anything but this, Aziraphale realized not for the first time that day. It would be like this forever and always. He choked as Gabriel picked up the pace. All he could smell was the sun, overbearingly sweet bourbon, and sweat. Gabriel was heavy above him, burning heat, and there would never again be anything but this. 

When Aziraphale began to sob, jerking and hitching, he threw his arms around Gabriel’s shoulders, needing to hold onto something. He couldn’t breathe, he could barely think, and Gabriel was shushing him softly. _I’m alone_, he thought frantically. _I’m going to be alone forever_. He didn’t think about why his aloneness was hurting him all of a sudden. There was no reason to acknowledge it; it only made him feel worse. 

“You’re not alone,” Gabriel promised. His cock always felt like this. Aziraphale didn’t know why he was losing it like this over the promise of good sex and affection for the rest of time. (He did; he knew why: because he was _alone_.)

He felt cored open, his chest a raw nerve. Gabriel kissed his neck, panting against him. He pushed Aziraphale’s thighs up to go deeper the way he—the way they both—liked. 

Oh God, he thought to call. Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God. 

“Yeah,” Gabriel groaned. The material of his shirt was starch-stiff under Aziraphale’s hands. He felt that with each fingertip. Gabirel would wear different shirts at least, and they might feel different, softer. He’d be naked sometimes, his back slick, if he wanted to sweat with the effort. It would be different like that, sometimes. Gabriel kissed him despite the snot and tears. Gabriel would kiss him. Aziraphale would be kissed (by Gabriel). Aziraphale loved being kissed. 

It felt like agony just then. “You’re all right,” Gabriel said softly. He finished up inside while Aziraphale keened and shuddered. Aziraphale felt like screaming but couldn’t manage it. He shook his head, and Gabriel pulled out of his grasp. He wiped away Aziraphale’s tears and gave him a last kiss. 

“It’s a lot, I know,” Gabriel said, stroking Aziraphale’s hair, thumbing over his cheek. “I won’t leave you alone, though. Not once it’s all settled.” 

Aziraphale couldn’t stop hyperventilating. He started to shake his head again.

“I know we said a quickie, but do you want me to finish you off?” Gabriel was already bowing his head toward Aziraphale’s leaking cunt. “It’ll help you relax.” 

“No,” Aziraphale said, sitting up and drawing his legs in tight. “No,” he said again, and Gabriel smiled goodnaturedly and shrugged. He straightened his clothes, and Aziraphale wobbled off the bed and into the bathroom. His cunt ached, and he had to clean up by hand.

* * *

Aziraphale had asked the concierge to call him a cab, and he’d asked the cabbie where he might best find a drink and some company that night. The cab driver took him to some sort of club in Oxford. The driver seemed to make some assumptions about what manner of establishment Aziraphale would prefer, and Aziraphale gave him a large tip for that. 

He proceeded to drink a lot very fast, even by his standards. The bartender mostly kept drinks coming, with one bump where he asked an unprompted: “You want a water?” 

A young man in a wrinkled green shirt stumbled against him and took the spot to his right. He was taller than Aziraphale, his hands rough and sturdy as the rest of him. 

“Hey!” he shouted over the music, flashing a smile. Aziraphale blinked slowly, taking it all in. He smiled back. Finished with pleasantries, the young man’s face rested mopey and dour. He ordered a drink. “That’s my ex-boyfriend,” he said in Aziraphale’s ear, pointing down the dancefloor. The man Aziraphale figured looked only a little younger than Aziraphale himself appeared to be. He, however, was solidly built, muscular, dancing with his shirt off.

“Ah!” Aziraphale called back when it became clear the young man wanted a response. He downed his drink and motioned for another. 

“Are you here alone?” he asked. 

Aziraphale nodded.

“Rough night?” the young man pressed on. The bartender brought them both their drinks.

“The roughest,” he admitted.

“Do you wanna suck my dick?” the young man asked. 

“What?” Aziraphale couldn’t have heard that right.

“You wanna do some shots?” he shouted, already waving the bartender back over.

* * *

He wasn’t sure he’d caught the young man’s name, but he supposed it didn’t matter. They’d gone back to his hotel room; the young man had only been in Oxford to spy on his ex and purchase cocaine. More than that, he lived in a small town, with his parents, and didn’t think they’d get much privacy. 

They didn’t touch the coke until they’d locked the door.

“It’s just for fun,” the young man said, pulling out a mini vial. Its cap had a snooter attached to it, which Aziraphale thought was very charming. “You don’t mind, do you?”

“Oh, no.” Aziraphale smiled wide, swaying a little. He twitched as he watched the young man treat his nose. “Only—”

“You want some?” 

“Well, just a titch, if it’s no problem.” 

The young man laughed and let Aziraphale help himself. It wasn’t quite a jolt, but it was a rush of familiarity. 

“Do you wanna go down on me?” the young man asked. He’d thrown himself back on the bed. 

Aziraphale sniffed a few more times, capping the vial, smiling. He sat beside him. They didn’t kiss, which was fine because Aziraphale didn’t want to. He carefully handed the vial back and started undoing the man’s trousers. Aziraphale glanced over at the clock: nearly midnight. Oh, how time did fly at the end of things. He worked his hand around the man’s cock. How positively depressing that the Great Plan had to come and muck everything up—especially when Aziraphale had just started to do cocaine again, which he liked so very much. 

“Oh, I won’t go through with it!” he said, pulling his mouth off of the young man’s prick.

The young man opened his eyes, face scrunching. “What? Why?” 

“No, I mean I’ve got to stop it! Here, you don’t mind if I—” and he snatched the vial from where it had been set aside on the duvet.

“Hey!”

“I assure you, my dear boy, it is of utmost importance!” He took another healthy bump. “I don’t know what to do quite yet,” he admitted, going for another but stopped by the very angry young man. “But I’m sure it has something to do with the boy!” The young man was fixing his trousers and cursing. “Would it be enough to talk to him, to ask him to consider saving everything? I have acceptable rapport with the boy, so I might be able to. Oh, if only Crowley were here! Crowley’s much better with children. I love Crowley—oh, my, how strange to say that! But I do, I suppose, in the fond way one might love a friend. That’s all. Oh, are you going?” 

The young man didn’t say anything but slammed the door behind him. 

Aziraphale stood and walked to the door and then back to the bed and then back again. He looked back at the clock: midnight. Everyone was certainly sleeping now, so he couldn’t talk to Warlock yet. But he could prepare something. He could write something. He had been a writer once. Maybe he’d prepare a list of reasons for Warlock to kindly not end the world, even though Heaven and Hell seemed to want it very badly.

There was a knock on the door, which made Aziraphale jump. He rushed to answer it. “Did you forget something?” he asked, hoping the young man had changed his mind and might help Aziraphale think through things. 

“Angel,” Crowley panted. He looked wrecked and exhausted, like he’d run. 

Almost before the word was out, Aziraphale had launched himself forward with a cry of joy. He held Crowley tight to him while Crowley choked and sputtered. Aziraphale kissed his mouth and cheeks and chin and ears, all of him, all over.

“Aziraphale, what—”

“You can help me, but I have so much to tell you first!” Aziraphale pulled him into the hotel room, knowing Crowley would likely need a soft surface to swoon against once he learned the truth. But before that, he shut the door, and he kissed Crowley again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE check out this incredible art that [jasmine tea](https://twitter.com/jasmineandstars) created for the fic!
>
>> [These two pics of (NSFW) threesome :O and (SFW) 70s babies!!](https://twitter.com/jasmineandstars/status/1247597676121784322)   
[And this (also NSFW) picture of the scene, you know, that one where Aziraphale spits Gabriel's come into Crowley's mouth](https://twitter.com/jasmineandstars/status/1264602107799363595)   

> 
> so, there's just the next chapter and then an epilogue. i will do everything in my power to have the next bit out by the end of the month if not sooner! 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for just a little bit of minor body horror in this chapter with gabriel. it's really not that bad i think, but i figured i should say something
> 
> as always, a huge thanks to [pinafortuna](https://twitter.com/_pinafortuna_) for her feedback and cheerleading!

(Monday)

Aziraphale pulled him into the room and nearly off his feet.

“Oh, Crowley!” he rushed, smiling wide, beaming, his eyes almost black with excitement. “Crowley, Crowley, Crowley!” He threw his arms around Crowley’s shoulders and pulled him snug against his chest. “I am so glad you’re here!” He abruptly pulled back, suddenly dour and gave him a sharp shove. “Where did you _go_?” 

Crowley hadn’t caught his breath yet from any of it, and Aziraphale quickly held him once more. “Oh, but it doesn’t matter because you’re here now! I was so worried! I had such a terrible day! The lake! And Gabriel!” He shook his head and pulled back. “Oh, let me look at you,” he begged. “You’re so handsome! And you smell—” he leaned in, practically face-planting against his shoulder while Crowley flinched. “I can’t place it. So warm! It’s perfect. Is it cologne?” Aziraphale sighed against him, seeming to slow down for that second, a hand clutching at Crowley’s side.

“Um,” Crowley started.

Aziraphale stood up straight again. “We mustn’t get distracted! There’s much to do! I was thinking of writing—” he sniffed and rubbed his nose. “Yes, writing, something for Warlock.” 

“Aziraphale, are you high?” Crowley choked, although he didn’t need to ask.

“I’m sure it’ll work, especially now that you’re here. The boy looks up to you. And I need a human perspective!”

Crowley’s stomach dropped. “Aziraphale, wait.” 

“Oh, I wish we were the same,” Aziraphale said, squeezing his eyes shut for a second and then giving his head a little shake to clear it. Crowley needed to interrupt him before it went on any further, but his tongue felt swollen and he couldn’t think of what to say. “Although you’d be a better angel than I. Than Gabriel!” He cut off as quickly as he started and sniffed violently. “No, I better not say that.” 

“Aziraphale,” he tried. He’d blurt it out if Aziraphale didn’t let him say it slowly.

“Oh, darling. You don’t mind that I call you my darling, do you, dear? You are so entirely precious to me. Darling, may I kiss you? Just once, before I tell you everything. Oh, I wish we had more time. I might tie you to the bed—if you’d let me. I feel I can never have enough of you. How very silly! But true! I’ve never quite felt this way for—for anyone. Human or otherwise. Oh, please, let me kiss you.”

Crowley was blaring hot red at this point, almost painfully so, almost delirious. He gurgled something, and Aziraphale took it for a yes, pressing a quick, mostly chaste kiss on Crowley’s mouth. Crowley suddenly, desperately clutched at Aziraphale, pulling him in to kiss him back, needing to feel and smell and taste Aziraphale viciously. 

“Sit on the bed,” Aziraphale begged once they’d kissed a while—but not enough, Crowley almost gasped. Aziraphale was right; it might never be enough. “I have to tell you something, and I think it will be quite a shock.”

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, allowing himself to be set on the bed nonetheless. 

“Where to start?” Aziraphale rambled, beginning to pace. “I suppose: a little over 6,000 years ago—or rather, I don’t know when I began only that there wasn’t much excitement, or at least not that I remember. My creator—”

“God, yes,” Crowley said. He tried to force himself to cut in, but he didn’t have the stomach it seemed.

Aziraphale lit up. “Yes, you put it together! How clever you are!” 

Crowley took off his glasses and put them aside. “‘S my creator too.”

“I suppose She created us all.” 

“No, I mean—”

“I was made to exist but I am not a human like you had assumed before. Rather, I’m an angel—”

“Yes,” Crowley said, rubbing a hand against his brow. “I know. I’m—”

“Not how you say it. A _real_ angel.” Aziraphale looked frustrated. “I’d show you my wings, only I’ve been cut off. But you can ask me a question, one only an angel would know the answer to.” 

“Aziraphale, I’m a demon,” Crowley finally managed out.

A crease formed between Aziraphale’s delicate, light eyebrows. “That’s hardly funny! I’m trying to be serious.” 

“See,” Crowley said, fanning his wings out, dark and glossy and maybe a little unkempt. Aziraphale’s mouth fell open. “Demon.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale croaked, eyes flickering wildly from right wing and then to left wing and then to Crowley’s eyes. “Wait,” he said, staggering away. “Let me think a moment.” He reached for the chair across from the bed. “I need to sit. I think I’m the one who needs to sit. How funny.” Crowley wasn’t sure if he was supposed to put his wings away. He left them out just in case. Aziraphale sat, starting to fiddle with his rings. “But how in the world did you go undetected by _two_ angels? Me, I understand. But Gabriel!” 

Crowley couldn’t help what his face did, the harsh twitch of his mouth that gave him all away.

“Oh, I see,” Aziraphale said, hollowing out. “I think I need to sit down,” he said, still seated. 

“I—” hadn’t known if he could trust Aziraphale, and he hadn’t meant to not tell him, and he was going to, at some point—but absolutely none of that helped.

“And Gabriel knew the whole time?” Aziraphale asked, carefully light.

“Yeah.” 

“Ah. And did you two—” Aziraphale scrunched his eyes shut with a wince. “Was it very funny for the two of you? You two must have been having a good laugh at me. Silly old thing, not knowing a _demon_ was right in front of me.” Before Crowley could work up offense or guilt, Aziraphale stopped dead, his eyes going wide. “You’re your father!” he realized. “The whole time! I’ve made such a fool of myself.” He buried his red face in his hands. “And you knew the whole time?” 

“Not before,” Crowley rushed. “Not back then. Just since Tuesday.” Aziraphale snorted. “I wasn’t laughing at you. I didn’t keep it from you to make fun. I was—” he couldn’t say scared. “I don’t want to get smited. It always stings.” He tried to keep his tone light.

Aziraphale nodded from behind his hands. “Yes, of course,” he said. 

“Please.” Crowley’s voice ravaged out of him. “Angel, I didn’t mean to — of course not.” 

“It is funny, though.” Aziraphale told him. “Typical Aziraphale. Embarrassing himself again. Hah.” Crowley couldn’t think of what to do. “The things I’ve said these past days. I’ve humiliated myself. Gabriel knows it. Oh,” he choked, bringing a hand to his mouth like he was about to be sick. “_Sandalphon_ knows. Gabriel’s told _everyone_,” he gasped out. “I think,” he breathed, “I think something’s wrong with my heart.” 

Crowley stood and lurched forward without thinking. He hesitated, watching Aziraphale press a hand against his chest. He was taking breaths that were too shallow, his eyes unfocused or at least refusing to see Crowley. In lieu of touching him, of grabbing him and pulling him against Crowley’s chest so that their hearts might feel one another and calm in company, Crowley knelt. He placed himself at Aziraphale’s feet, a supplicant, his hands raised.

“What can I do?” he asked, while Aziraphale pressed his palm against his chest and shook his head. 

“I think I’ve had too much and my corporation—it must be that. I snorted cocaine. I would imagine you could tell.” 

“It’s okay,” Crowley said, and he gently reached forward, placing his hand over Aziraphale’s, seeing if he’d be shaken off. Aziraphale abandoned his chest to clutch at Crowley’s hand, squeezing tight and meeting his eye.

“My friend,” he said. “My darling friend. What are we going to do?” 

“We could run away together,” Crowley offered, watching Aziraphale closely. “I know a few star systems that are nice this time of year.”

Aziraphale was silent for a moment. “Could you really do that? Leave everyone behind?” 

Crowley smiled, a slight thing, a little pained. “No. Could you?” 

Shaking his head, Aziraphale said: “I wish I could. I wish we could, but no. Darling,” and he moved their clutched hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to Crowley’s knuckles. “I think we have to come up with a plan. Oh, dear,” he said, hand tightening around Crowley’s. “Oh, what a muddle! And how long have you known about Armageddon?” 

“Since last night,” Crowley said. Aziraphale let go and stood up. He went back to wearing out the carpet, and Crowley watched him from the floor. “I accidentally sent myself back home—” and when Aziraphale’s eyes shot at him, he clarified: “Glasgow, not Down There. I would have miracled myself back, but I was a little tapped out after that. And I would have driven, but I’d left the Bentley behind. I tried to call—”

“But none of the phones are working.” Aziraphale nodded, fast and jerky. “How did you find out?”

Crowley paused. He had hoped it would be obvious and they wouldn’t have to talk about it. “Gabriel told me.” 

Aziraphale exhaled loudly, becoming more agitated. “Of course he told _you_.” 

“Yeah,” Crowley barely managed to get out before Aziraphale cursed and stomped his foot. “Angel, can you sober up?” 

“No. I told you; I’ve been cut off.”

Crowley’s stomach crawled. “He does that to you?”

“He would say I do it to myself, I’m sure.” Aziraphale rubbed his forehead. “What a muddle,” he repeated. “I wish you had told me.” He set his eyes back on Crowley’s, face tight but not as angry.

“Next time, I will.” 

Aziraphale laughed. It was coarse, but it was a laugh.

* * *

The plan was relatively simple, as most effective plans were. In the morning, they would beseech Warlock to not end the world. Crowley thought a written message might be too indirect, and Aziraphale seemed to see some reason in that. However, they still prepared some comments to reference in the moment should they find themselves too emotional to remember.

_Dear Warlock,_ the notes began. _There comes a time in every man’s life where he must make his first truly difficult decision. Regretfully, yours has arrived, and it is a decision which concerns the fate of the entire world. As the antichrist—_

“Shouldn’t we explain that first?” Crowley asked.

“Oh, but I’m sure he knows what the antichrist is. He’s been to school, my dear boy.”

Crowley snorted. “That is _not_ something they teach in schools, angel. And I mean _how_ he came to be the antichrist.” 

“I’m sure that’s a much more appropriate subject for the boy’s parents.” 

“Ugh, ngh, look. How about this?” 

_You weren’t born in England but in Hell, and Satan is your dad. So, you’re the antichrist._

“Yes, all right,” Aziraphale nodded, scribbling it down. 

_So, you’re the antichrist, which means you’re destined to bring about Armageddon, start the Truly Great War between Heaven and Hell, and wipe out nearly all life on the planet. We implore you to think of humanity, to think of your mother and father—_

“Ahhh, better not put that,” Crowley said.

“Right. They were absent from his party. How about ‘Think of your friend, Adam, and your Dog who would be happiest running around on a world not destroyed?’ Oh, but Crowley, what if he can’t control it?” Aziraphale tapped the pen against the paper, watching Crowley with wide eyes.

Crowley exhaled, because _yeah_, what if? But they couldn’t plan for that. They could plan to stop the kid through convincing him or force. “Mention that the movie’s not finished, and he still has more props to mess around with.” 

“Oh, did I tell you about the lake monster?” Aziraphale perked. 

“No,” Crowley frowned. “The prop?” 

“It was supposed to be but it wasn’t a prop at all! It was the kraken! Supposed to wake up in the sea; instead the creature wakes up in a tiny little pond! Poor thing. My side, or, er, the angels sent him back.” 

Crowley graciously ignored the slip. It wouldn’t do either of them good to dwell on that. “I’d hardly say the kraken is a _poor thing_.” 

“Oh, but you didn’t see him!” Aziraphale said severely. “He looked awfully upset!” 

“I am a bit disappointed I missed that,” Crowley said. “I’ll bet Ezzy’s having kittens.” 

“She’s not pleased. And now there’s this very pushy young American woman! She’s come with Miss May. Do you remember Miss Carol May?” 

He did not remember Carol May, at least not by name. Keeping all the humans straight could be hard. “Uhh.” 

“Lovely woman! Playing the fairy—again!” Aziraphale laughed. “But her nurse—now that I think of it, I really ought to have pressed her a bit more on how exactly she knew about all of this. Oh, but I wasn’t in my right mind yesterday, you have to understand.” 

Crowley understood. “What’s with the nurse?” 

“She always seemed to know when I performed a miracle, even just little blessings. Like, she could feel it. I believe for a moment she thought _I_ was the beast, so I suppose it really was lucky that Gabriel froze my miracle privileges.” Aziraphale looked back down over his scribbled letter, and Crowley tried to keep from twitching at the words.

“Does he do that often?” He tried to sound casual. “Cut you off?” 

“Usually after we’ve had a tiff and I’ve run off. Sometimes he’ll just monitor them.” Aziraphale finally looked up. He didn’t look any worse than mildly annoyed. 

“Hm.”

“Is Hell particularly tightfisted with your miracle allowance? Demonic miracles,” Aziraphale clarified. 

“Err, we don’t really do that. If you overdo it and burn your energy or get in trouble up here, that’s on you.” 

“I see.” Aziraphale looked like he might take notes. But when he glanced down at the pad of paper and complimentary pen in his hands, he was reminded of their task. “Crowley,” he said suddenly, “What if we can’t convince him?” 

That was the question, wasn’t it? “If we can’t convince Warlock…” Crowley started.

“What?” Aziraphale asked.

“We can force him to stop.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale paled. “You mean…”

“Yeah.” Crowley tried not to look sick. “If it’s too much, you—”

“No, no.” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “We’ll do what we need to do.” 

Crowley wanted to ask if Aziraphale was sure, if he was really ready to turn his back against Heaven. But Aziraphale’s eyes were puffy, his face still bruised and scabbing in spots, and he was becoming increasingly lethargic as he came down.

“I forgot what this felt like,” Aziraphale said. He exhaled long and slow, pallid and trembling. “I always miracled it away, except once, just to see.” 

“I’ll call you room service,” Crowley said, already going for the phone. “Send up some tea or something.” 

“Oh, I can’t imagine they’re still open.” Aziraphale shook his head, and then kept shaking it a little too long, as if he might dislodge something. 

“They are,” Crowley said, because he wanted them to be. “I’ll have them send up some nibbles.”

“No, that’s not necessary.” 

“For later.” Crowley put in the call. Aziraphale stayed very quiet and still, looking down at his hands folded on his lap. “It’ll be up in a minute,” he said, at a loss for how else to help. “Do you want to sit with me?”

Aziraphale shrugged a shoulder, and then seemed to curl in even more around himself, shrinking. 

“I could hold you,” Crowley offered, his throat dry. Aziraphale’s gaze ducked up to meet his and then darted away. But he nodded and got up, coming to sit gingerly on the edge of the bed. Crowley scooted up, tugging Aziraphale with him and arranging them into a tumble of limbs. Aziraphale settled between Crowley’s spread thighs, his weight solid atop Crowley torso, his ear pressed to Crowley’s chest. He made his heart do "Shave and a Haircut" just to make Aziraphale laugh (even though it made Crowley feel lightheaded and nauseated).

“Do you want to talk?” Crowley asked

“You talk,” Aziraphale said. “And I’ll listen. Tell me a story.” 

Crowley thought for a moment. “Once there was a boy named Sidney York — ”

“Oh, no, I’ve heard that one. Tell me a story about you.”

“About me?” Crowley wasn’t sure where he’d even start. 

“If you don’t mind. I’d like to know where you were, what you’ve been doing.”

“Where I’ve been all your life,” Crowley offered.

“It would have been so different if I’d known from the beginning,” Aziraphale hummed against him, cosy and close. “I never would have sent you back to your room, our first night together.” 

“Would’ve kept me up all night?” Crowley smiled, lopsided and all teeth.

“Something like that,” Aziraphale murmured, voice dipping in a way that made Crowley blush. “Your name in that band: Snake. You’re _that_ serpent.” 

“Yeah,” Crowley said, becoming more self-conscious. “I am that very snake.” 

“I don’t know how I missed you. I was in the garden, you know.” 

Crowley shrugged. In the garden, he’d been sleepy and slow. After Eve and Adam had been given the boot, a patrolling cherub found him. “That was the only angel I saw while I was there. They smote me before I even opened my mouth. Sent me right back down. ‘Course, they were basically throwing a party for me when I got to Hell. Or the demonic equivalent. I wasn’t back up until the world had spread out some.”

Aziraphale nodded. “And where did you go then? I want to know everything about you. Every place you’ve been, every person you’ve met. Would I be familiar with any of your work? Outside of the apple business and the more recent, ah, temptations.”

Crowley floundered. “The M25?”

“The motorway?” Aziraphale laughed.

“It was a side project. It's not that impressive, I guess.”

“Oh, but it’s much more than I can claim! I blessed the ark that Noah sailed in. That’s my greatest claim to fame! Well, and Christ in the Garden, but that was actually against my orders. Or rather, I was fairly certain they wouldn’t like it, so I didn’t ask. Because I behaved so emotionally after Christ, Gabriel recommended that I be put on lighter duty.”

“And other angels,” Crowley asked, “They know all about you and Gabriel?” 

“It would be difficult to hide something like that from the Host. It was strange at first, because Gabriel is my superior and—well.” Aziraphale played with his wedding band. “He could have had anyone he pleased. I always knew that.” 

“Did he say that to you?”

Aziraphale pushed up to level a look at him. “I’m not some timid housewife. Gabriel is difficult, and sometimes I can’t stand him, but he doesn’t hurt me. He doesn’t belittle me. So whatever you want to imply, you can stop. It doesn’t fit here.” 

“It doesn’t,” Crowley repeated, because the denial sounded ridiculous to him. Aziraphale’s face was turning a blotchy red, and he sat up. His pretty hands fluttered as he tried to explain it. 

“He doesn’t beat me,” Aziraphale said, as if it was just a matter of clarifying a few details that Crowley didn’t understand. “He never even raises his voice at me.” 

Crowley, sensing that Aziraphale could go no further, hummed. “The bar’s so low.” Aziraphale moved toward him, and Crowley eased them both back down. “Good news for me.”

Aziraphale hiccuped a laugh, which startled them both. “Yes, well, if we exist another day, I’m sure there will be good news all around.” Crowley smiled, and, as things sometimes did happen at the right time, the tea arrived.

* * *

The sun rose, and Crowley and Aziraphale left the hotel. 

“Warlock stayed over at the Youngs,” Aziraphale said again. Crowley wanted to take his hand as they walked, squeeze it, and comfort him. But Aziraphale’s hands were clasped tight in front of him, so Crowley shoved his own in his pockets. 

“Do you want to go to the cafe first?” he asked, which was in the opposite direction, but worth it if Aziraphale wanted.

“No, no,” he said, absently. “And I doubt I’d be welcome back after yesterday.” He hadn’t been generous with the details of just what had happened while Crowley was gone, but Crowley hoped he could get the story after. With luck, it was something they could have a nice laugh about. 

“My car should be just that way,” Crowley said, pointing. It felt too surreal to walk somewhere on Armageddon, and Crowley had more than missed the Bentley when trying to get back to Tadfield all of yesterday. 

“I suppose we may need to get somewhere quickly,” Aziraphale sighed. “The Four Horsemen must converge at a physical location, and I have no idea—well, probably the airbase. Isn’t that what Gabriel said to you? That he was at the airbase? Although that might not have been true.” They both got in the car, and Aziraphale suddenly laughed. “I don’t even know if there is an airbase in Tadfield.” 

“Hopefully we’ll talk to the kid, and that’ll be that.” Crowley started the Bentley, and they were off. “We can call it a day by noon and hide in the hotel while our sides scratch their arses.”

Aziraphale snorted. “_Heads_, dear. Scratch their _heads_.” Crowley smiled, because obviously he’d known that and said it to mess with Aziraphale. He wouldn’t just forget an idiom like that. “And for some reason, I doubt we’ll be getting out of this so easy if we’re successful.” 

Crowley drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, “You, ah… worried about what your boss will do?” 

“Gabriel?” Aziraphale hummed.

“No.” Crowley cringed. “No, I mean…” he raised a hand to gesture. “Your _Boss_.” 

“Oh,” Aziraphale thought. “I would imagine if this was a problem, truly, She would stop me.” He seemed to hold his breath for a second, waiting. “Or something will stop us. Really there’s no way of me knowing without contacting the Metatron, but without my books and cut off like this,” he waved his hand airly. He glanced at Crowley. “Are you worried about Satan?” 

“Ngk.” Crowley certainly was, but that had sort of been his constant state for several thousand years. No one felt _comfortable_ about Satan. “Probably best not to think about that yet.” 

They pulled up to the Youngs’ house and parked. Aziraphale checked his breast pocket to make sure he still had the prepared statement (he did), and they walked up to the door. Aziraphale knocked, a polite rap, and when that wasn’t immediately answered, Crowley knocked again. 

“Yes?” Adam’s dad answered. He didn’t step aside or make any sign which indicated he remembered who they were. 

“Yes, hello,” Aziraphale said and cleared his throat when it came out rougher than usual. “We were hoping to speak with Warlock. It’s a very important matter.” 

“Do you know what time it is?” the man asked. 

Aziraphale looked at Crowley. Crowly frowned and shrugged. “Half-seven?” 

“It’s quarter-past seven,” Mr. Young snipped. “I’m not sure how they do it in Hollywood, but here, us normal decent types don’t call on people until after 9:00!” 

“Oh, Mr. Aziraphale!” Mrs. Young popped over her husband’s shoulder with a smile. “And you found Mr. Crowley! How nice. Come in; I’m just finishing up breakfast. Arthur, go get ready for work.” She shooed her husband aside so they could step in. 

“Thank you, Mrs. Young,” Aziraphale said, breathing in relief. 

“Oh, _Diedre_,” she corrected. “Always Diedre.” She went back to the kitchen. “What brings you two?” 

“We were looking to speak with Warlock,” Aziraphale glanced around like the boy might have been tucked into a corner somewhere. 

“Is he in trouble?” Diedre was making eggs and ham. There was toast with jam on the table, and two jam-spotted plates already in the sink. 

“We hope not,” Crowley stepped in when Aziraphale didn’t seem to know how to respond. “That’s why we need to talk to him soon.” 

“The boys went out to Hogback Wood with their friends, trying to get in a bit more fun before Warlock has to leave.” Diedre turned off the stove and looked at them. “They should be back in a few hours. You’re welcome to stay here. I can whip up some more eggs.” She smiled. 

Her husband tramped into the kitchen, and Crowley placed his hand on the small of Aziraphale’s back, guiding him out. 

“That is so kind, Mrs. Young—Diedre, I mean.” Aziraphale said. “Another time. We have to be off.” 

They were out of the house just as the husband was saying something rude, and on any other day, Crowley would have loved to get into it with him. 

“Oh, we should have asked where Hogback wood was,” Aziraphale flustered the second the door shut behind them. He turned back to knock again.

“Better not,” Crowley said. “Let’s ask him.” He nodded toward an old man, glaring at them from the far sidewalk. He had a fat dachshund on a lead. “Hey,” Crowley said, stalking up to him. “Where’s Hogback Wood?” 

“Hello, darling,” Aziraphale said to the dog, who sniffed at his trouser leg. 

“You’re not from around here,” the old man said, squinting between them.

“Did you put that together all by yourself?” 

“Crowley, don’t be rude!” 

“Right — look,” Crowley said, trying to sound intimidating. “I don’t want to ask again. “

“What would you two gentlemen want in the wood?” 

Crowley snapped his fingers, putting the man under instantly.

“Oh, really,” Aizraphale frowned, but the man was already giving them directions.

* * *

Hogback Wood, once they found it and had scoured about for what felt like hours, was a dead end. There were no children, no dogs, and certainly no antichrists in sight. Crowley was trying not to let the frustration show on his face, because they’d wasted all of the morning traipsing through the woods. 

“Oh, I hope nothing’s happened to him,” Aziraphale fretted. “What if your side took him?” 

“Or yours,” Crowley pointed out.

“Yes, or mine. We’ll never get to him in time then.” 

“I don’t think anyone’s supposed to interfere with the rite,” Crowley said, hoping that was true. He spotted something and then did a trouble take. He frowned. “Isn’t that the prop guy?” 

It was, and he was standing next to a dark-haired woman with divining rods, coming through the trees. 

“Oh, _bother_,” Aziraphale cursed, his posture becoming even more rigid. “That’s her: Ms. May’s nurse who knows things.” 

“Maybe she knows where the boys are,” Crowley said, starting to saunter toward them.

“I doubt that, if she’s having to resort to divination!” 

“She probably doesn’t even know who she’s looking for,” Crowley muttered, and said to the couple, “Hey, you two. We’re looking for some children.” 

“Oh,” the Pulsifer boy said, “Mr. Aziraphale! You found Crowley!” 

“Hardly,” Aziraphale said. “He turned up.” 

“Children?” the alleged nurse asked, rods still raised like she was ready to take off at any second. 

“The boys,” Crowley said. “Adam and Warlock.” 

“Have you seen them?” Aziraphale added. “Please?”

“Why?” the nurse asked, looking between them. 

Aziraphale flustered for a response, so Crowley said: “Just want to make sure they’re safe.” 

“We saw them heading back to town a while ago, didn’t we, Anathema?” the Pulsifer boy said. She shot him a look, which he didn’t seem to understand. 

“Great. Carry on.” Crowley started to slink away.

“Wait!” the nurse Anathema shouted. 

“Let’s not.” Aziraphale tried to pull Crowley along. Crowley had already looked back though. 

“What’s going on?” she demanded. “What are you two?”

“What are you?” Crowley shot back. 

“I’m an occultist, tasked with finding the Beast and stopping him from ending the world.”

Crowley and Aziraphale exchanged a look. “Yeah,” Crowley snorted. “All right. Good luck, occultist. Prop guy.” 

“Stop walking away from me!” She stomped over, and Crowley finally got a good look at her. Her entire frame was broad and strong. She wasn’t taller than him, and he was a demon, but she was still an intimidating enough human. “I don’t know who or what you are, but if you know something, you have to tell me! The _world_ is ending,” she explained. 

“Mr. Pulsifer,” Aziraphale said, ignoring the nurse as her companion joined them, “Would you by any chance know if there were some sort of base in the area?”

“A base?” the prop guy repeated, slowly. 

Crowley huffed. “He means like a military base.” 

“What’s at the base?” the occultist nurse asked. She finally let the divining rods drop. 

“I mean, we passed an airbase on our way into Tadfield, me and my uncle.” He thought back, and he rattled off some approximate directions. “You could probably google maps it, though?” 

Aziraphale looked at Crowley. “Do you have that capability?” 

“Wuh—do I have that capability?” Crowley snorted, although he was maybe so testy because he hadn’t thought of that himself. He pulled his cell out of his pocket. “My phone, you mean? Google maps?”

“Yes. yes. I’m out of touch. Now’s hardly the time.”

“All right, thanks you too. Happy hunting,” Crowley said, turning while the nurse sputtered and swore after them both.

* * *

It was early afternoon by the time they got to the airbase. Adam and Warlock were already there, staring down the Four Horsemen. Dog was with them, as well as some other children Crowley was relatively sure he’d never seen before. 

“I didn’t realize Pollution had taken over for Pestilence,” Crowley said lowly, not wanting to disrupt.

“People do get distracted from these sorts of things quickly,” Aziraphale answered, quietly gauging the scene. 

“Short memories,” Crowley grumbled. 

Warlock spotted Crowley and ran bolting over. “You’re back!” 

“Course I am,” he said, trying to sound cool. Warlock gazed up at him, astonished. “Wouldn’t, ah, miss your big day.” 

“You know I’m the antichrist too?” Warlock’s expression dropped.

Aziraphale shot a glare his way. Crowley fumbled for their notes, but couldn’t find them in any of his pockets. “I think you’re, uhh, a very bright boy and there’s a lot more you could do if you don’t end the world.” 

“I agree!” Aziraphale rushed. He pulled their notes out of his pocket, his eyes scanning them. He seemed at a loss looking over them like they weren’t good enough and dropped his hand. “The world, for all its flaws, has certain upsides — like Dog and Adam over there.” 

“Hey!” War shouted. “It doesn’t matter if he wants to or not,” she stated. “It’s happened already. There’s nothing you can do. He can’t stop it.” 

Warlock looked back at Crowley, eyes wide. Crowley looked at him, and it didn’t quite feel right because he’d seen Warlock mad and upset and throwing a tantrum, but he’d never looked hopeless. He was 11, and there was still supposed to be hope when a human was 11. 

“Crowley, what do we do?” Aziraphale was asking softly, fidgeting beside him. “Crowley, do we — oh, do we?” Crowley reached out his hand, and Warlock grasped it, and Crowley walked him back to the Horsemen. “Do you want to listen to them?” Crowley asked Warlock.

“Don’t I have to?” Warlock blinked. “Don’t they know?”

“Of course we do,” War said. “This was our purpose.” 

“Actually, they don’t have to know,” Adam said. “Not if you don’t want them to be right. Like with the lake monster and the fairy and the slug. You wanted it to be real, so it was.” 

“You can’t just wish us gone,” Famine said. And from there, things happened very quickly to show that, yes, in fact, sheer will alone was enough in some matters.

“I think that’s my sword,” Aziraphale said, looking where War had stood. He didn’t move to pick it up, instead looking queasy. Warlock was still gripping Crowley’s hand, and he squeezed it suddenly. Aziraphale startled too, stepping behind Crowley involuntarily before squaring his shoulders and deliberately stepping back. 

“The Toad and the Lizard!” Warlock whispered, and Crowley snapped his gaze to the newcomers. 

“Actually, that’s a chameleon, Warlock!” one of the many children said.

“My shoes,” Aziraphale moaned. 

Crowley stepped in front of Aziraphale, although he wasn’t sure what he’d be able to do.

“Crowley!” Ligur snarled. “I heard you were here. What are you doing with our angel friend?”

“And the antichrist!” Hastur added. “Holding hands?” he sputtered, looking horrified. 

“Mr. Crowley, do you know them?” Warlock asked, practically crawling up Crowley’s arm at this point. 

“Er, yeah,” Crowley said. “Hi, guys,” he tried with the demons. “I think the Apocalypse is off today. Antichrist wasn’t feeling it.” 

“Hey, Aziraphale, what are you doing here?” Gabriel appeared behind them, gabbing Aziraphale by the upper arm and yanking him aside. 

“Oh, it’s just that — oh, well, you see — that is — I mean — ” 

“Wow, never mind. I’ll deal with you later.” He let Aziraphale go and refocused on Warlock, who Crowley now had to defend from two directions, which wasn’t ideal. He forced a big smile, succeeding only in looking harried and manic. “Hey, kid, I need you to restart everything. The Apocalypse. You goofed up. It happens around these two,” he said, meaning Crowley and his husband. “I get it. But you can fix it and just,” he gestured quickly, “Start it again.” 

“We have this handled,” Ligur growled. 

“No, actually,” Gabriel told them, turning sharply on his heel. “You don’t.” He rolled his eyes, looking the demons up and down. “You would think Hell would give more of a _damn_ and send someone actually important to oversee Armageddon.” To Aziraphale, or maybe to himself, he said: “This war is going to be easy.” 

“We delivered the child!” Hastur gawped. “Of course we’re here!” 

“I’m sorry,” Adam interrupted. “You want us to end the world so you can fight each other?” He looked at his friends. “I feel like we made our thoughts about war pretty clear just now.” 

“I’m not talking to you,” Gabriel rounded on Adam, voice raising, pointing a weighty finger in his direction. “Do you know how many children I’ve smited?” 

“Gabriel, please,” Aziraphale reached for him, trying to redirect his attention. 

“Shut the fuck up, Aziraphale.” Gabriel bit out, rounding on him. Aziraphale flinched, and Crowley took a step forward. “Do you want to make this worse?” Crowley froze, his heart thudding. Aziraphale looked at his feet, closed off and ashamed. “Were you really going to trust a demon, sunshine?” Gabriel asked. “After everything I’ve done for you? I can’t believe what an idiot you are.” 

“You can’t talk to him like that!” Warlock shouted, dropping Crowley’s hand to stomp over to Gabriel.

“Him?” Gabriel asked, snatching and jerking Aziraphale around by his arm. “I can talk to him however I like, and you’re the only brat here who doesn’t know it.” 

“No!” Warlock yelled. “You can’t! In fact, I don’t think you’ll ever talk to him again!” 

Gabriel released his hold on Aziraphale like his hand had been burned and slapped his palm over his mouth. Warlock, seemingly startled by what he’d done, jolted backwards in horror, bumping into a much calmer Adam who had crept up behind him. 

Aziraphale stumbled forward, into Crowley, and Crowley felt his pulse stutter looking at Gabriel. Gabriel’s eyes were wide, vivid purple, and the whites of them seemed to be growing bigger by the second. His hand clawed at his face, and Crowley saw it: he no longer had a mouth. Furious, Gabriel’s wings spread, mantling, grey and violet dappled, and massive. Aziraphale was twisting to look back at him, unnerved by the silence, and Crowley instinctively caught him by the shoulders and pulled him into his chest, not wanting him to see. 

Even without his big, sharp teeth to flash, Gabriel’s face was violently expressive. There was a storm gathering above, loud and electric. His huge wings flapped once, twice, like he might take flight. Instead, the wind picked up.

“You’re a rotten husband,” Warlock said, once he’d found his words. Gabriel’s eyes flared, and finally Aziraphale muscled around to look at him, one dainty hand pressing against his own, extant lips. “If you ever try to hurt Mr. Aziraphale or Mr. Crowley, you’ll be sorry.” 

“Warlock,” Aziraphale choked, barely loud enough over the wind. “Please don’t make this worse!” 

“In fact,” Adam jumped in, “I think anything bad that happens to Aziraphale and Crowley from here on out should happen to you too.”

Warlock nodded at his friend. “That’s a good idea. And every time you try to talk to Mr. Aziraphale, this will happen.” 

“And every time you look at him, your eyes will burn,” Adam added.

“Do you think?” Warlock asked. Adam shrugged. “All right — you’ll never look at or talk to Mr. Aziraphale or Crowley again! You’ll leave them alone, and you’ll leave us alone too! Or else.” 

The storm died down quickly, and Gabriel very pointedly did not look at Aziraphale. His mouth reformed as Hastur and Lgiur walked forward.

“By a child, Gabe?” Hastur tittered. Gabriel didn’t use his mouth for more than a sneer, and then he was gone. 

“And, you!” Warlock said, getting into the swing of it now. “I had to stay in a hospital because of you!” 

“So did Mr. Aziraphale,” Adam pointed out.

“Boys, you can’t curse every being who inconvenienced me.” Aziraphale looked faint and deeply upset. 

“Inconvenienced?” Crowley repeated, aghast. 

“Why not?” Warlock asked, genuinely confused. “I have the power; I get to choose how I use it.” 

“Of course, but — ” 

“It doesn’t matter if you take our mouths,” Ligur growled, although Hastur didn’t look like he fully agreed with that. “Half the demons we know don’t have mouths.” 

“And the burning eye thing sounds like a good torture for us to bring back.” 

“So you can’t intimidate us,” Ligur explained. “You should restart the Apocalypse, if you know what’s best for you.” 

“No,” Warlock said. 

“All right, well,” Hastur started, matching his tone. “We’ll tell Beelzebub, and they’ll tell _your dad_, and then we’ll see how stubborn you want to be.” And then they were gone too.

“That’s,” Crowley started, “Not good.” 

“They wouldn’t send Satan up here, would they?” Aziraphale wrung his hands. 

“For the War?” Crowley asked back. And then the ground shook, and Crowley was flat on his stomach, being used as leverage to hoist the Devil out of the earth. 

“But, Warlock, you can just tell him no like you did with our sides, can’t you?” 

Warlock hesitated. He looked to Crowley, belly-down and doubtful if the spawn of Satan could overpower Satan himself. Aziraphale rushed to pick up his sword, like that would do something. 

Satan tore through the earth, breaching the surface with a roar and a rumble. 

“Crowley, we have to think of something!” Aziraphale said, tugging him to his feet.

“You don’t scare me! You’re not my real dad!” Warlock shouted, watching Satan reach his full height on land. 

“And you’re not my son.” Satan flicked his wrist, and Warlock was sent careening down, toppled over a few feet away. He started to cry, clutching his arm. The Devil looked to Adam, taking a step toward him, the ground shaking. “Restart the War, disobedient offspring.” 

Adam, for once, was stunned. “Uh.” He looked to Aziraphale and Crowley for help. Crowley, not knowing what else to do, snapped and stopped time.

“Adam, did you know this?” he asked immediately, ignoring the change of scenery to hot, blinding desert. His wings were out. Aziraphale’s weren’t, and Crowley tried not to think about how he might never get to see them.

“Of course not!” Aziraphale insisted. “Warlock’s the antichrist!” 

“The Devil doesn’t think so,“ Aziraphale pointed out.

“Well, he’s _wrong_!” Adam said, face emphatic and serious. “Warlock did all of that stuff! It was all him!” 

“Or did Warlock say things out loud for you to make happen?” Crowley asked. Adam gaped. 

“Adam, dear, if Warlock truly is the antichrist, you must not have any doubts.” Aziraphale’s voice was rickety, but he managed to get it all out evenly enough. “Do you _think_ he’s the antichrist, or do you _believe_ that?” 

Adam looked between them, struggling for words. “He’s the one that wanted to see the lake monster! He’s the one who found Dog!” 

“What does Dog have to do with it?” Crowley asked. 

“Dog’s a hellhound.” 

Crowley pressed on: “And who told you that?” 

Adam fell silent, because he didn’t know. “I’m not the antichrist. I’m just Adam. Warlock’s my best friend, and _he’s_ special. I’m just Adam,” he said again. “I know I’m just Adam.”

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale started, choked with emotion. “You are so special. There is no one quite like you. No one could be the best friend of the antichrist so well.” 

“Are you sure?” Adam asked.

“Yes, we’re sure,” Aziraphale nodded. “Aren’t we, Crowley?” 

Crowley was entirely sure who Adam was, but still he said: “Yeah, kid. There’s no way you’re the antichrist. It’s Warlock. And I know Satan doesn’t have any power over him.” 

With another snap, they were back. Satan was still lumbering over to Adam. Warlock was picking himself up and shaking out his arm, already healed. Towering over them all, Satan repeated: “Restart the War.” 

“I can’t,” Adam said.

“You are my son,” said the Devil.

“But I can’t. And you knocked over the one who can, so he might not listen to you.” 

“What?” Satan’s voice whipped through the air, his gaze landing upon Warlock, the antichrist, and unequivocally not his child. 

“You’re not in charge here!” Warlock said, and Crowley hated to admit it because it was so cliche, but the boy _did_ start to levitate. “You should just go away, you ugly shit!” 

“Warlock!” Aziraphale scolded, but he likely went unheard because the huge demon was roaring. 

“You little bastard!” he cursed. “You little bastards!” he said to both children, and maybe the rest of them as well.

“You don’t belong here, and I’m not starting your stupid war! Go away!” 

Satan had some choice words to say, but there wasn’t much he could do outside of leveling the airbase and that must not have occurred to him, embarrassed as he was, because he was gone the next moment.

Warlock came back down to earth. Adam went to his side and hugged him. Warlock eyed Aziraphale and Crowley. He scrunched up his nose. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale looked horrified. “Oh, I — I don’t know what you mean.” 

“You’re not supposed to be blocked like that.” And without as much as a wave of the hand, Crowley watched Aziraphale be returned to his power, color flushing his cheeks, his eyes brighter. He smiled, weakly but relieved, and Crowley wanted to kiss him. 

“We stopped the nukes!” The Pulsifer boy and his occultist appeared from the direction of the base, pulling everyone’s attention away. The nurse’s hair was disheveled, and Pulsifer’s face was flush pink. His shirt was on backwards. Crowley heard Aziraphale tsk at the display and couldn’t help but smile. 

“What?” Adam asked.

“There were nukes?” Warlock peeped. 

“Yes,” the nurse said evenly. She had her pinkie hooked with Pulsifer’s; Crowley could see that now. “There were nukes.” 

“I fried the computers,” Pulsifer explained wildly. “Fwoosh!” he explained, demonstrating an explosion with his hands. 

“He did. He was very brave.” 

“You should have seen her!” Pulsifer went on, shouting. “There was a tree down at the fence, and she moved it herself so we could get inside!” 

The nurse smiled. “It was a small tree.” 

“A tree!” 

“Well, that does seem to be that,” Aziraphale said, clearly having had enough. “Warlock, I know Janae is looking for you. And Adam, your mother must be concerned that you’re not home yet.” 

The boys and their assorted friends were reluctant to leave. Still, they picked up their bikes. “But now that it’s over,” Warlock tried. “The shoot doesn’t have to be cancelled. Right?” 

“I suppose we’ll have to talk to Mrs. Volk and see what she thinks,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley grumbled. He’d been hoping to go back to the hotel and crash into bed. Every minute they stayed was another hour he was adding to his nap. He pulled out his phone. “I’ll call Hannah. She can deal with Ezzy, and the details. Everyone, just go home,” he said, mostly to the children. 

“And I’ll talk to your mother and your governess,” Aziraphale said to Adam and Warlock. “I’m sure we can work something out while Crowley gets the other bits arranged.”

* * *

The next hour and some change was spent shepherding the children home. Aziraphale went inside to speak with Mrs. Young and a frantic-looking Janae. Crowley stayed in the car, giving a censored version of events to Hannah and insisting that she find a way to convince Ezzy to not cancel the shoot.

At the hotel, Crowley didn’t know what to say. Or maybe that wasn’t it. Maybe it was that he knew there was nothing to say. Nothing could truly be said about that day to Aziraphale that would be enough. 

“You look exhausted,” Aziraphale said, a hand coming up, a finger tickling under one of Crowley’s eyes. When Crowley leaned into the touch, Aziraphale cradled his cheek, thumb brushing the corner of his lips. “My poor dear.” Aziraphale replaced his thumb with his lips, kissing him softly. Crowley felt like something was clogging up his throat. Aziraphale pulled back, smiling and warm but muted.

“Are you all right?” Crowley finally asked. He didn’t lean after him when Aziraphale pulled away, but it was a near thing. 

“Perfectly.” But his eyes darted to Crowley’s face, and he sighed. “I’m happy to be here with you,” he said, which was at least truthful.

“You can be happy and not all right.” Crowley took off his jacket. He’d been wearing the same clothes for two days, and while he didn’t have worry about them getting dirty, he was becoming more and more uncomfortable with each moment. 

“That’s an interesting thought.” Aziraphale loosened his bowtie. 

“I’m not trying to talk philosophy with you,” Crowley started. “Gabriel — ”

Anger flashed out of Aziraphale, rough and raw. “I rather don’t think I’m ready for that.” Quietly, he breathed in and steadied himself. He kicked off his shoes. “What about a bath? I can miracle up some bubbles. Doesn’t that sound relaxing? Would you ring down for some champagne—or whatever they have—while I start the water running?”

Crowley did as asked and had them send up a slice of cheesecake for good measure. While he waited, he listened to the bathwater run. When the tap was turned off, he listened to Aziraphale undress and get in. 

Dessert was left on the table, but Crowley poured the champagne. He brought it into the bathroom, pausing at the door to take in Aziraphale’s soft, flushed pink face. He was surrounded, seemingly cradled, by the mass of bubbles he’d created. The room smelled like lavender, and every inch was foggy and warm. 

Sitting on the edge of the bathtub that realistically looked too small for two bodies but miraculously would accommodate, Crowley handed the flute over. Aziraphale’s eyes drifted open and he smiled at him, hair curling even more in the humidity. 

“Finally,” he hummed, unbearably tender. “What shall we toast to?” 

Crowley felt it was unfair for that decision to be put on him. He sputtered. “To us, not dying today.” 

“Hmm,” Aziraphale frowned. “A tad too morbid for me.” He lit up. “How about we toast to tomorrow — and new beginnings!” 

Relieved, Crowley grinned. “Fine. To new beginnings.” They clinked and sipped. 

“Aren’t you going to join me?” Aziraphale asked after a moment, oh so casually. 

“Do you want me to?” 

“Yes, very much,” he admitted. “As long as you’d — ” but Crowley was already pulling off his clothes. 

Leaving his drink on the tile floor, he got into the hot water, eased to a spot in between Aziraphale’s spread thighs. His back to Aziraphale’s soft chest, he sank down, feeling aches he had stopped noticing melt away. He could feel the unnecessary beating of Aziraphale’s heart. He suddenly was overwhelmed, struck by an unnameable, indescribable emotion, Nearly painful in its intensity, he was grateful Aziraphale couldn’t see his face. 

“Shh,” Aziraphale murmured, gentling Crowley with his entire body. “We don’t have to figure it all out right away, do we?” He pressed his cheek to the top of Crowley’s head, arms wrapping around a thin, hollow torso. “I have you.” 

Crowley, without meaning to, fell asleep right there, not all right but very happy.

* * *

When Crowley woke up, they weren’t in the bath anymore. He was wrapped up in a fluffy white hotel robe (although he’d never been in one so _soft_), and he was tucked into the bed. He had an arm snaked around Aziraphale’s lap, his face pressed against Aziraphale’s hip. Aziraphale was reading, wearing some stupid little glasses. Crowley absolutely hated them, and he loved how they looked resting on Aziraphale’s upturned nose. 

“What time is it?” he asked, voice rough. He winced at the sound. “What day is it?” 

“Still the same,” Aziraphale said, marking his spot and taking the glasses off. “And it’s almost nighttime. Not too late.” 

Crowley stretched. “Sorry I fell asleep on you. Er, literally.” 

“Sorry I wasn’t myself with morning,” Aziraphale countered. “I don’t remember if I apologized for that.” 

“It didn’t bother me. Or,” Crowley restated, “You didn’t bother me. I just wanted you to be okay.” 

Aziraphale turned on his side and squirmed down to face Crowley head on, a hand curling under his full cheek. “You really mean that.” 

Crowley’s mouth twisted. “You don’t have to say it like that.” 

“Like what?” Aziraphale’s eyes were half-lidded. His lips were parted. He wasn’t leaning in to be kissed, but it was hard for Crowley not to consider it. 

“Like,” Crowley swallowed. “Like it’s a surprise.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes shut for a moment. He visibly worked up his courage and said: “And you don’t have to stay. I’m not expecting you to, if you’d prefer to leave tonight, or tomorrow, or sometime next year.” 

Stomach turning, Crowley tried to find the words. “Expect things from me,” he said. “Please.” 

“It’s only that we don’t know each other very well, and I keep forgetting that. I worry this is all — all too fast for us.” 

_Not for me_, Crowley nearly said. He was ready to go full speed ahead even, but Aziraphale looked nervous. Sad, even.

“I might,” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Darling, you should know. I might never truly be over this. I don’t think I realized how unhappy I was. Or, I did — at times. But I’ve realized it again, and now I can’t even _talk_ to — ” his voice broke. “I’ll never speak to him again. And I should feel grateful.” 

“To Warlock?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale nodded almost imperceptibly. “Warlock didn’t give you a say. You don’t have to be grateful for something like that.” 

“I would have said no. I would have stopped him,” Aziraphale explained.

“I know.” 

“A part of me is glad he didn’t give me a choice. Because I — there’s a part of me that wanted it taken out of my hands, that burden.” Aziraphale shook his head. “What a coward I am.” 

“You’re not a coward, angel.” 

“I am. You’ll realize it if you stay.” 

Crowley huffed. He wasn’t good at this. But clearly Aziraphale wasn’t good at it either. At the very least, they weren’t alone in it. He reached forward, index finger hooking around Aziraphale’s pinkie finger. 

“I was trying to not get my hopes up too,” Crowley started slowly, “These past few days. I wasn’t sure if you’d be done with me if I told you I was a demon. If that would disgust you or scare you or make you angry.” Aziraphale frowned at that, so Crowley touched the corner of his mouth. “But now I know that everything would have been easier, better, if I hadn’t tried so hard to ignore my instincts.” 

“How absurd,” Aziraphale scoffed, but he wasn’t quite frowning anymore. “I could have smited you.” 

“You wouldn’t have,” Crowley said. Aziraphale didn’t respond, which was answer enough. “You don’t have to know how you feel about everything yet. But you can trust that I want to be with you, for as long as you like.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, now grasping his hand.

Someone knocked on the door.

“Did you order something?” Crowley asked.

“No,” Aziraphale said, poking his head up.

Crowley sat up. “I’ll go check.”

“Oh, don’t trouble yourself.” Aziraphale started to get up as well. “I can get it.” 

“No, angel, seriously, I’ll check.” and because Crowley got up faster, Aziraphale stayed on the bed. “You haven’t had your cheesecake,” he said, looking at the table. “I could have them send up something else.” 

“Oh, no.” Aziraphale flushed. “I didn’t know if you wanted to share it.” 

Crowley reached the door, sighing a laugh. “Maybe a bite, but it’s for — you.”

Gabriel stood in the doorway. His hair was sticking up in places, and his suit was wrinkled. He was pale, his eyes red and irritated. He looked terrible, and Crowley couldn’t even enjoy it. Everything about him was off, less radiant. Crowley hadn’t even felt his approach.

“Crowley,” Gabriel said, voice straining with his effort to stay calm. “I’m here to deliver a message.” 

Aziraphale shifted on the bed; Crowley could hear that much. One foot was placed on the ground and then hesitantly picked back up. Gabriel heard it too, his eyes searching out behind Crowley before he caught his mistake and cleared his throat. 

“With Armageddon stalled, we’ve instituted a new truce. You and — _him_ are disowned. As any threat to you is a threat to me and therefore Heaven’s security, any action taken against either of you will be considered an act of war. This is only until Armageddon is restarted, at which point you and — you two will be escorted to Heaven for safekeeping.” 

Crowley leaned against the doorframe, watching Gabriel twitch with self-pity, with rage. With shame, Crowley realized hysterically. “You don’t really think you’ll be able to restart it,” Crowley said slowly, “Do you?” 

Gabriel didn’t answer that. “I’ll be watching over you,” he stated, and then continued as if the words caused him physical pain: “Because I can’t watch him. You both are to stay on earth.” Gabriel swallowed. “And if you could remind him,” he said, loud enough that Crowley wouldn’t need to pass the message on. “That even if Heaven has disowned him, he’s still mine. _My_ husband. And that all of this,” he gestured around his face, “Is temporary. And while you’re at it, maybe remind him that you're a demon, who _lied_ to him, who deceives everyone. And that I know what the antichrist did is going to wind up hurting Aziraphale more than it hurts me.” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale called from inside. His voice was reedy but otherwise level. “Would you mind shutting the door? I think there’s a draft.” 

“You heard him,” Crowley shrugged.

Face twisting, Gabriel looked ugly and vile and _evil_ with his anger, but Crowley didn’t see too much of that because the door shut and that was that. 

Aziraphale came into view, white-faced and solemn. After a moment he said: “I’m afraid I won’t be able to eat that perfectly gorgeous cheesecake right now. My stomach’s a bit turned.” 

Crowley snapped it into the minifridge and wrapped his arms around Aziraphale. “None of what he said was true,” he promised. “He has no idea how to undo it. And you don’t belong to him.” 

“Yes,” Aziraphale murmured, unconvinced. “Shall we do dinner?” he asked, pulling back, seeming to forget that he’d just said he couldn’t eat. 

“Of course,” Crowley nodded regardless. “What are you thinking?” 

“Italian.” Aziraphale was already dressing. Crowley miracled on a new outfit. 

“Italian, it is,” Crowley said.

* * *

Aziraphale regained his appetite during the drive. His entire mood lifted, until it was silent and he began to think. So they chattered all the way there, and when they were seated, and as they sipped the wine waiting for their dinners. 

“I _am_ excited to finally try this place. I worry it won’t be as good as I’ve made it out to be. Oh, and if you don’t mind, after, I’d like to check on a cat in the alleyway, if she’s still there, with her kittens. You know, I never did get my shoes back; I know in the scheme of things, that’s very small, but I really had hoped. They were a favorite pair.” 

“I wish I could remember them, but I don’t know if I’ve ever really spent much time looking at your shoes,” Crowley said. Which wasn’t entirely true, because he was ravenous when it came for any information on Aziraphale — but Aziraphale smiled when he heard it, demured, giving him a hot look. 

“You fiend,” Aziraphale teased, and then looked nervous, like he’d misspoken. 

Crowley made a point to smile, and tapped his foot over Aziraphale’s under the table for good measure. “Do you mind when I call you angel?” he asked, propping his chin up on his hand. Aziraphale eyed his elbow on the table, which made Crowley smile wider. 

“Of course not.” 

“And I don’t mind fiend,” Crowley shrugged. “Not from you, not like that.” 

“When you called me pigeon,” Aziraphale said, after a moment, “I always liked that. It made me feel special, funny enough. And they’re such common little birds. Although, their coloring can be so beautiful. I’m rather plain in mine,” Aziraphale explained. 

“Your wings?” Crowley asked, turning even more towards him. 

“Yes. Yours are so lovely,” Aziraphale admitted as the waiter came with their entrees. 

“Ahh, they’re not that great.” 

Aziraphale took a bite and hummed. “Lovely,” he said again after swallowing, a tension in his shoulders releasing. “They’re so dark, and glossy! They’re gorgeous in the sunlight.” Aziraphale took another bite.

“Oh, you noticed,” Crowley managed out somehow, his ears burning with the praise, but the rest of him jumbled up and excited. _Gorgeous_, he thought, _I’m gorgeous_. “I’d like to see yours.” 

“I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed,” Aziraphale stated plainly, dabbing at his mouth with the napkin. “They’re downy and white: typical angel’s wings. And they haven’t been groomed in — oh, well, in a long time.” 

“Maybe I could,” Crowley started, and then lost his nerve because it was presumptuous to assume that Aziraphale would want Crowley’s hands on his ethereal form. 

Aziraphale looked at him wide-eyed, and Crowley tried to hide his embarrassment by taking a drink. With a gentle tink, Aziraphale set his fork down. “Would you really?” 

Crowley shrugged while chugging wine, which was a bad combination because he started choking. He coughed a few times before he miracled the wine back in the glass. “Yeah, I guess,” he said when it became clear that Aziraphale was waiting for an answer. “But it’s not like I _need_ to.” 

“I might take you up on it,” Aziraphale said quickly. His mouth twitched, a smug smile barely obscured by him looking down at his plate.

“Ngk. Yeah? Okay. Sure.” 

The next bite Aziraphale took was accompanied by its usual noise of pleasure, but this time he kept his eyes firmly on Crowley’s. Crowley crossed his legs and leaned forward to watch.

* * *

“It’s sort of incredible, isn’t it?” Aziraphale said once they were back at the hotel. He was neatly stepping out of his loafers, taking off his jacket. “That my silly book brought us together. To think of all the things that had to fall into place to have us meet. It makes me a little dizzy to consider it all. Had you ever read _The Way Home_ before the first film?” He was unbuttoning his shirt. Crowley was about to see his _wings_.

“I read it a few times,” he said, only half paying attention. “I loved it.” 

Aziraphale paused. His face lit up. “You did?” His voice was soft, brimming with happiness. He looked shocked and overjoyed and a little watery-eyed. 

Crowley was suddenly very much back in himself, blinking. “Uh, um, yeah,” he said, frowning in confusion. “Of course I did.” 

“You’re just saying that.” Aziraphale removed his shirt and then started working on his trousers. Apparently, he wanted to be preened while bare. Crowley squirmed out of his boots and shirt, racing to join him. 

“I’m not. I didn’t want to like it, but I did. Why did you stop writing? Or not take it up again?” 

Before getting on the bed, Aziraphale grabbed the cheesecake from the fridge. “It didn’t interest me any longer,” he said airily. He sat facing the wall with the plate in front of him. He glanced over his shoulder to eye Crowley while he undressed. “And I’d lost my confidence. It made me sad, trying to write. So, I stopped.” 

Crowley took the sight of him like his garden at home took life from the soon. As much as he might try to shape the garden unnaturally, it was impossible for the individual parts to give up their nature, when the sun felt so good. He buzzed all over, devastated and delighted. He wondered if he had ever once felt so nourished by love in Heaven, and he doubted it. 

“You know,” he said, coming up behind Aziraphale on the bed. “You can do whatever you want now.” 

“I know,” Aziraphale hummed, facing forward. “And I want to let you tend to my wings.” 

He unfurled them then. They were like he had said, downy and white, and they were not at all like he said. They were magnificent. 

“You’ll be gentle with me,” Aziraphale said. It wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” Crowley murmured. "Thank you.”

Crowley touched his wings. They were softer than he could have ever imagined. As Aziraphale sighed, Crowley began his work, straightening each feather. One by one, things were put in an order that they created.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there is going to be an epilogue posted within a week, but that's the main story! thank you so much for being here with me, for your patience, and for your kind words throughout. i am so happy to have shared this with you! i hope you liked how the story went!


	11. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can you believe this is almost 100,000 words? wild. anyway hope you like it! also there's some crowley with a vulva but im not adding a tag because it's just a small mention. 
> 
> thank you [pinafortuna](https://twitter.com/_pinafortuna_), for everything!!

The shoot resumed and managed to make up for some lost time. Aziraphale had been rather liberal with miracling clear weather for filming and smoothing over any technical issues. After all, he hardly knew what could go wrong while filming a movie, and so nothing did. 

Following the Kraken incident, there was a small surge of press around the village, but that died down quickly. Someone had said the words “LSD in the water,” and everyone seemed happy enough to leave it at that. Crowley’s manager returned a few days after that, all in a huff about _contracts_ and _safe work conditions_, but that seemed to be more out of duty than proper concern. She seemed very happy to spend a week idling about Tadfield, especially now that Crowley had vacated their rooms and was stationed with Aziraphale. 

If he hadn’t earned millennia of experience, Aziraphale would have had trouble believing how quickly everyone returned to “normal.” He tried to exist as normal as well.

* * *

“So, your great grandma,” Newt started. He was sitting cross-legged in Anathema’s hotel bed, the night before she and Ms. May were scheduled to leave. Currently, her charge was down at the pub with Mr. Aziraphale, having been less than subtle about what she expected Anathema and Newt to do while she was away. 

“A few more greats than that, but sure.” Anathema waved at him to continue. 

“So, Grandma Agnes, she wrote this book, and all of it happens. And she wrote that you would—”

“Become the strongest person in the family yet, through hard work, dedication, and a ‘gymnasium at which I might hone my crafte.’” She smiled. Newt was gazing at her the way he always did when she was naked: he didn’t know where to look, so his eyes stayed dopily on her face. 

“Wow,” he murmured. “And all so you could lift that tree to get into the airbase?” 

Anathema shrugged. “It’s got other uses, but I guess that was one of them.” 

Newt’s face brightened. “Did she know I was going to be with you? Did she ever write anything about me?” 

“‘Fair of face and blessed of cock,’” she recited. Newton turned a shade of red that almost looked painful. 

“Grandma Agnes said that about me?” 

“She also said I’d be able to bench press you.” Anathema put her hands behind her head and grinned when Newt’s eyes darted after her biceps. His mouth hung open. On anyone else, Anathema might have thought it was annoying. But she liked surprising him. 

“Did she really say bench press?” he managed out, his voice higher. 

“I can show you the prophecy if you like,” she said, not moving. “Or we could run down to the hotel gym and see for ourselves.” 

Newt had his pants back on faster than he’d taken them off.

* * *

After _The Way Home_ wrapped, Crowley told Hannah to cancel any other future projects. In exchange, he had to do a few magazine interviews and one talk show to promote_The Way Home_, set to premiere mid-2021, and that was that. Hannah couldn’t even work up the energy to be angry. She seemed too happy for him. 

In the months following, Aziraphale picked up with him in his Glasgow flat. Living together was a dream. Aziraphale started to purchase and store up books, cultivated himself a little, well-loved wardrobe. Crowley’s flat had not been designed to be “homey,” but Aziraphale made things light, and warm, and cosy. 

He’d read while Crowley gardened, settled on the big, cool leather couch, a tattered afghan thrown over his lap. He was more than content to be Crowley’s pillow when the telly was on, and sometimes when it wasn’t, provided he had his book pile nearby. Whenever Crowley took him to a restaurant, Aziraphale got a look on his face, a dazed and moony sort of look, like Crowley had built the facade and cooked the food himself. And the time Crowley actually _did_ cook for him, Aziraphale thanked him so profusely and made such a fuss over it that Crowley had nearly discorporated from embarrassment. 

And the sex just got better and better.

“You know, you can grab my hair, if you like. Put me where you want me.” Crowley was kissing one of Aziraphale’s knees, Aziraphale’s plump hands gripping black silk bed sheets. They stood out, like cream on oil, and Crowley might have gotten distracted if it hadn’t become a familiar sight. 

“Are you sure?” he breathed, face almost as pink as his cunt. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You can hurt me a little,” Crowley hummed, nosing along his thigh, knowing it made Aziraphale tremble. “If you’d like.” 

“But, oh,” he gasped. Crowley kissed his mons, over his blond curls “It’s cruel, and you deserve…” He didn’t finish the thought, as Crowley flicked his tongue up his slit, pointing against his clit.

“Hmm? What do I deserve?” Crowley asked before french kissing his hole, reaching up to hold his hips still as he began to squirm.

“Ohh,” Aziraphale quaked, hands flexing, hips jerking as Crowley rumbled a laugh against him. 

“Huh?” Crowley pulled back, tormenting Aziraphale’s clit with his thumb. “Come on. What do I deserve?” 

Aziraphale glared at him, although it wasn’t very threatening, because he was blushing down his chest. Still, Crowley eased up, asking: “Do you want me to stop?” 

“No,” Aziraphale said quickly, and then, embarrassed, amended: “I want you to stop being a scoundrel.” 

“Oh, a scoundrel.” Crowley leaned in to kiss around his quim again. “And what is it that scoundrels deserve?” 

Moaning, Aziraphale’s thighs tightened around him, and Crowley hiked his hips up so he could really dive in. The gasped off curse Aziraphale said had Crowley rutting his cock against the bed, suddenly feeling himself ache all over. And Crowley didn’t push the issue any further right then, getting distracted with the task at hand. 

“Kindness,” Aziraphale said when they were both on their backs, panting and flushed. “That’s what I was going to say: you deserve kindness.” 

“No, I don’t,” Crowley said out of habit, flinching more from shock than actual horror. “Even if I’m out of commission, I’m still a demon. I’ll go out and cause mischief right now. Watch.” He moved to get out of bed, but Aziraphale scootched over and placed a hand on his chest. Crowley smiled. 

“You mean quite a lot to me,” Aziraphale said. Crowley felt vulnerable just hearing his voice like that: stilted and raw and honest. “I don’t want to do anything that might suggest otherwise.” 

“Oh, believe me, angel, I don’t think I’m going to forget how you feel about me any time soon.” Crowley curled his fingers with Aziraphale’s, stroking his thumb over the back of his hand. “You’ve pulled my hair before,” he pointed out. He wanted to add on that he’d even smacked Crowley across the face and he was welcome to do it again, but that particular conversation could wait because Aziraphale tensed up. “Don’t worry about it,” he finally said, curling up against him, wrapping himself up in Aziraphale’s arms in the next moment. He gazed up at him, making a show of fluttering his eyelashes. “I’ll get you to treat me like the demon whore I am yet.” 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale tapped his shoulder sharply, aghast. 

“Ooh, like that,” Crowley teased, hands groping up Aziraphale’s sides as he huffed and fluttered at all the impropriety. 

“Well,” he snipped, “You had better kiss me now or I shall be cross with you the rest of the evening.” 

So, Crowley kissed him. It made him feel boneless and calm, like lying in his skin in the sunshine.

* * *

Once finally finished in Tadfield, Ezzy got her cat from her ex’s and drove up to London to see her mother. “You wouldn’t believe any of what happened,” she said, Mr. Paws curled up on her lap and a Hot Toddy steaming on the table in front of her. Her mother’s mug was on the countertop while she did the dishes from dinner, refusing to let Ezzy help. “It’s a cursed project, I’ve decided. Like _Dr. Dolittle_. _Macbeth_.”

“Oh, how dramatic! Maybe they’ll make a movie about the making of,” Maryann said. “Who do you think would play you?” 

“Danny Devito.”

“Oh, ha ha.” Maryann shut the sink off and finally grabbed her drink. “You can tell me about it, even if I don’t believe you. And I did see that bit about the mass hallucination of a lake monster on Facebook. So I know some of it.” 

Ezzy sighed. She took a sip and thought. “I really think I watched the book consultant heal a woman who’d had a stroke. Like with magic.” 

“My,” her mother said, sitting down. Mr. Paws got up and switched to her lap, having always preferred Maryann. “That does sound unbelievable.” 

“And the thing is, if anyone could do it, it would have been him. There’s something about him. Otherworldly. I know it was a long time ago, but did my dad ever say anything about Mr. Aziraphale?” 

“Aziraphale?” Her mother looked caught off guard. “I met an Aziraphale, but I doubt he’d still be working in movies. He was at our party. Your party, really. The one we threw to celebrate becoming parents. He was with one of those boys in the band. Snake. They were so charming together, but I only ever met Aziraphale the once. Goodness, I hadn’t thought about him since you were born.” She blinked back to herself, and she looked at her daughter. “There was another Mr. Aziraphale on set?”

“Yeah. When you say Snake, you mean from Temptation?” 

“Oh, yes,” Maryann laughed. “That’s certainly the only Snake I’ve ever met.” One hand scritching the cat’s ears, she took another sip. “When are you going back to work on the film?” 

“Hmm?” Ezzy asked. She’d become lost in her thoughts.

“Are you able to stay long, or do you have to head back tonight?” he mother asked. “I have your room set up.” 

Ezzy must have been tired, because she felt herself choke up. She hid it by drinking. “Yeah, I might stay a few days, if that’s all right.” 

“More than.” Her mother stood, Mr. Paws jumping off her lap like it had been his idea. She leaned over the table and pressed a kiss on Ezzy’s forehead. “You can help me with the pierogies tomorrow.” 

“Okay,” Ezzy smiled. “Paws’ll be happy not having to go on another car ride right away.” 

“Oh, well, as long as the old mister is happy,” she said, directed at the cat as he weaved around her ankles. 

Work could wait a few days.

* * *

Crowley and Aziraphale moved into a cottage by the sea. Crowley emptied out his flat in Glasgow and moved all of the items he and Aziraphale agreed upon—the bed, the bath towels, and greenery— as well as some personal effects he refused to part with—his throne, his far from tasteful statue, his _Mona Lisa_. Aziraphale had his books and clothes shipped from the house in Sonoma, along with a faded velvet divan. The rest was donated.

The first time Aziraphale cried over any of it, he hid in the bathroom of their newly purchased cottage. It wasn’t that he thought Crowley would mind or misunderstand. It wasn’t even that he was worried it would make Crowley feel sad too. It was only that it felt so private, and so muddled up by everything that had happened, that he didn’t want to talk about it. The feeling was too indescribable, and so he covered his mouth and wept with the tap on. 

Unfortunately, that seemed to be just the start of things. Maybe it was the move being finalized. Unpacking his beloved things in a lovely little house in the countryside that he loved beyond words with a demon who he was very much partial to: it all built, grinding up against his delicate resolve. 

When he started sniffling while making love, Crowley caught on. 

“What wrong?” Crowley asked, pushing up to look at him. They’d been cuddled up, Aziraphale’s backside pressed up against Crowley’s front, Crowley’s arm dipping around to idly rub at Aziraphale’s mound. His other arm was under them, curving at the elbow around Aziraphale’s throat, cupping his chest. It all felt sweet, and Aziraphale felt spoiled with love. 

“I’m terribly sorry,” Aziraphale said, turning to face him but pulling back as well. He wiped at his eyes. “I don’t know what’s come over me.” 

“I didn’t want to say anything before,” Crowley said, “Because I didn’t think you were ready to talk about it, but are you not… happy?” He winced at his own question, guilt flooding his expression.

Before Crowley could take it back, Aziraphale shook his head. “I am happier than I ever thought possible.” 

“But it’s difficult,” Crowley said, mouth a tight line.

“Yes,” Aziraphale admitted. “Rather.”

Crowley sighed, his eyes shutting for a moment. He raked the hand that had been cupping Aziraphale just a moment ago through his hair. It was growing out, currently at an awkward length, curling at his pale pink, freckled ears. 

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said finally. 

“What are you sorry for?” Crowley asked, looking at him once more, eyebrows drawn. 

Aziraphale stared at him. He wasn’t sure. That he’d stopped them from making love, maybe, but he suspected Crowley wouldn’t react well to an apology over that. That he’d made Crowley sigh, burdened him in any way when he should have been enjoying his retirement. Perhaps it was the acknowledgement that Crowley alone couldn’t keep him from becoming fidgety and morose, and that Aziraphale might always be that way. 

“I don’t think I can,” but Aziraphale cut himself off, shaking his head. He felt his throat clogging and his eyes welling up, and he didn’t want Crowley to see.

Crowley took his hand, “Okay,” he said, “Not today then.” 

“Oh dear, we’ve nearly missed teatime,” Aziraphale said, sitting up. He forced a laugh. “Silly old me. Do you want some?” 

Crowley’s lips twitched, a frown and then something like a smile. “All right. Do you want help?” 

Aziraphale bristled, but it was only to make Crowley’s smile more real. “I assure you, my dear, I can manage making tea on my own.” 

“I meant,” Crowley said, and he looked absolutely gorgeous, bed-rumpled and grinning, “Do you want some company, or would you like some time alone?” 

“Oh.” Aziraphale hesitated. His chest twinged. He wanted to cry again, but he didn’t think he would. “Yes, darling, I think company is what I need.”

* * *

Gabriel had not been demoted officially, but it wasn’t like one could have their subordinate husband ruin Armageddon and just return to business as usual. Now a “liability,” Gabriel was instructed to stay off earth and given double the workload to keep him in his office as much as possible. 

Nobody _blamed_ him, per se. Everyone pitied him. After all, he’d been betrayed by his only lover, a simple and failed principality, with whom Gabriel had obviously been much too soft. Angelic couplings were supposed to strengthen the pair, but Gabriel had chosen to be weakened.

He was paying a few subordinates to be his “research assistants,” having them read up on curses and how his might be done away with. Outsourcing that, Gabriel was able to spend the rest of his free time in Earth Observation, keeping an eye on Crowley and Aziraphale from above. His eyes were now constantly red and rubbed raw, irritated just from looking at pictures of his husband. 

“I could go down for you,” Sandalphon offered, after glancing at the picture clutched in his hands: his husband and the demon together in a garden. Crowley had dirt on his hands and smeared some of it on Aziraphale’s cheek, showing off whatever horrible thing he was trying to grow. Aziraphale looked happy, interested, excited. Gabriel couldn’t stand it, and it made him so twisted up inside he nearly clutched at his own chest.

“You’re not supposed to hurt him.” 

Sandalphon looked offended, whether that was genuine or otherwise. “I wouldn’t do anything to Aziraphale that hurt him,” he said. “Hand to God,” and he made a sign, smiling. 

“No,” Gabriel said, louder this time. Sandalphon’s smile got sharper, and Gabriel realized he was being rude. “Thanks for the offer.” 

“What about the antichrist? Can’t he be reasoned with?” Sandalphon asked. Gabriel opened his mouth, and Sandalphon put a hand up. “I know you’ve tried to speak with him yourself, but I might persuade him, if you like, as a favor to you.” When Gabriel didn’t immediately respond, he added: “Have you considered if the curse might break upon the boy’s death? I could send him home, if you know what I mean.” And to clarify, he intoned: “Downstairs.” 

“Yes, I understand, Sandalphon.” Gabriel did his best to not sound angry. Of course he’d considered that. But it wasn’t worth the risk, in the case that the inverse was true. If he needed the living antichrist to take back his word, everything would be over if he acted too hastily. “I’m going to discuss it with him again in a few years. Humans’ brains develop slowly; it’s probably that keeping him from being reasonable.” 

“Oh, certainly,” Sandalphon nodded, indulgent. “I am wondering just what you plan to do with Aziraphale if you manage to get him back.” 

“_When_ I get him back, I will remind him how important we are to each other.” Gabriel crossed his arms. “And that I’m his husband.” 

“Yes, and will the indiscretion go unpunished?” Sandalphon might as well have been drooling, lolling his tongue at the idea of justice. Gabriel understood the appeal; everyone was pent up from the War being so suddenly stalled. He shared their fury, and he couldn’t lie about that. 

“I’m sure we can come up with something that leaves him intact. Reminds him where he belongs.” 

“Wonderful!” Sandalphon clapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll start planning.” 

Gabriel didn’t care what they planned. He had built a little suite just off of his office where he’d keep Aziraphale, and he wasn’t going to let him out for at least a millennium once they were together again.

* * *

“What was your favorite?” Aziraphale asked. They were at a little Thai place a few towns over; Aziraphale liked it, and it was enough of a drive to keep the Bentley in shape. “Out of all your occupations?”

Crowley thought about it. “I guess being in the mob was all right.” 

“That was Anthony Jr,” Aziraphale checked, although he was momentarily more focused on their appetizers being brought over: satay, vegetable tempura, shrimp cakes. “Was it very dangerous?” 

“Nah, not for me.” Crowley drank some of his tea, watching Aziraphale make up his plate. “It wasn’t the crime that I liked so much, although some of that was fun. It had been a while since I was a part of something. With Ballet Russes, there was the troop and we had some good times, but when you got down to it, everyone was really there for their art. And things with Salome and Eve got sort of cocked up.” He didn’t elaborate further on that. “With the mob, at the end of the day, it wasn’t about putting on a show. Anyone who wasn’t actually loyal to me didn’t stick around long.” (He left out this was usually due to some mortality-related issue because Aziraphale would have taken that the wrong way.) “I had people who liked me, not the starstruck fawning I got during Temptation or while acting.” 

“Yes, I would imagine you got quite a lot of, ah, fawning throughout the years,” Aziraphale said delicately. 

Crowley grinned, all teeth. He was wild about this angel. “Not the way your dirty little gears have turned it.” Aziraphale looked scandalized, although he moaned once he got another bite of shrimp. Leaning back into his chair, Crowley watched with rapt enthusiasm. “You know,” he started up again. “I almost didn’t want to leave. Part of my plan in each of these temptations was to die off suddenly and cause some kind of trouble with my death. But, with the mob, I didn’t really want to split after my 15 years passed. I kept coming up with ways to look older so I could stick around a bit longer.” He continued, and it was with a sort of smile: “It was the most well-attended funeral I’ve ever had. I’d never felt wanted before that, not really, or at least not for a while.” 

He realized that Aziraphale had stopped eating and was now just looking at him. He looked moved, emotional. Crowley shifted in his seat, but Aziraphale reached across the table and took his hand. “I am so glad that you had that,” he said, voice thick. He swallowed. “I am so sorry that you were lonely.” 

That felt a little too real, so Crowley cleared his throat and checked to make sure he had his sunglasses on. “It’s not a big deal, angel,” he tried to say. “I just liked the attention, is all.” 

“I would imagine you’ve gotten used to a certain type of attention the past century.” Aziraphale’s hand was so warm, so _soft_. 

“Err, yeah. But I, y’know, didn’t actually want all of that.” 

Aziraphale nodded. “It’s different to feel like you’re wanted somewhere, I imagine.” His voice was so gentle and quiet. Crowley felt cooped up, like his gums might be itching. “Not just wanted in general, but that you belong with someone. Yes, I can see how you might value that.” 

The waiter came with their meals packaged to-go, which had Crowley frowning. “What’s wrong?” 

“I thought we might save this for home.” Aziraphale stood and took their take out. He collected Crowley as well, allowing him to grip his fingers before leading them away. 

They drove back, and Crowley kept the radio low, one hand on Aziraphale’s knee the whole way home. 

In the driveway, before they were even in the cottage, Crowley attached himself to Aziraphale’s back, lovesick and weak. He mouthed at his neck, kissed his shoulder through his coat, and bit his earlobe. 

Aziraphale laughed, turning against him to get a peck on the lips. “My fiend, what’s gotten into you?” 

“Oh, uhh…” Crowley blinked at him, head feeling light with whatever it was he felt when Aziraphale was so close and smiling at him like that. “You, hopefully.” 

That at least got Aziraphale pink in the face, his eyes blown wide and his mouth parting and he processed. “Yes,” he agreed and started herding Crowley inside the house. “Yes, of course.” 

The cute, chubby cock Aziraphale made for him had Crowley salivating, miracling his hole slick, wet all over. Lying on his back, he had Aziraphale straddle his chest so he could lean in and lap around his new, sensitive little prick. It wasn’t even a problem if his tongue split; Aziraphale never seemed disgusted by anything Crowley was in bed. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale squirmed on top of him, his thighs tensing, his hands curled against his own mouth, still careful to never do anything accidentally degrading like tugging or slapping, at least until his second or third orgasm. “I won’t last,” he warned. “I want to come inside you.” 

Crowley groaned, nearly falling back against the pillow at the rush. “Mm, right, ah — ” He let Aziraphale scramble back down, finally finding his home between Crowley’s legs and hitching his skinny thighs around his waist. He brought a tentative hand down to touch Crowley’s hole and rutted into the heel of his other hand at finding him loose. 

“Oh, God,” he said as he pushed in. 

“Shh,” Crowley hushed mindlessly, a finger coming to press over Aziraphale’s plush mouth. “Not Her.” 

“But, oh,” Aziraphale whined, firmly seated inside him. Oh, he was inside him. The heat, the clutch of Crowley’s body had made him call out, was making him sing, was making him scrabble around him, work his arms around Crowley’s back, hold him like a lifeline. “Oh — oh — oh — my—” All against Crowley’s ear, and Aziraphale’s prick was a perfect stretch, the tip kissing up against his center, brushing against it. 

“There.” Crowley spread his legs even wider, letting Aziraphale in deeper. “Right there.”

“Like this?” he whispered, and Crowley made a series of high, aching calls that meant _yes, like that_. Aziraphale was so good at taking instruction, his smooth, gentle hand viced around Crowley’s cock, stroking him in time. 

Crowley came with some warning, and Aziraphale followed after a few more thrusts. Crowley clung to him, breathing hard against his broad shoulder. When Aziraphale started to pull out his softening cock, Crowley started hugging him tighter. “Please stay,” he rushed. 

Aziraphale was breathless. “What?” 

“Inside. Stay inside me. Just for a little while,” Crowley said. “Please.” 

“Yes, of course,” Aziraphale said, settling in, heavy and warm. 

Crowley hummed, so content he figured he might drift off like that. As he did, as he wound himself around Aziraphale and constricted, he heard him say: “I am so happy you’re here with me.”

* * *

Adam and Warlock of course planned their 12th birthdays together. This time, the Dowlings hosted, because their yard was much bigger and Warlock’s mother had felt embarrassed about being shown up the year before. Adam’s mum insisted she bring the cake, however, and his father brought a bottle of whiskey to share with Mr. Dowling. 

Warlock’s mother, not uncompetitive in her maternal performance, pulled out all the stops, paying for a live band, a full bar, and some of those inflatable structures: not only for bouncing, but for general sliding, grappling, and roughhousing. Warlock’s lousy rich friends were invited, along with their lousy rich parents, and The Them. Dog of course came along as well, although this was to be expected because Adam always brought Dog when he visited, as per their agreement.

Reshoots had been minimal, but Warlock and Adam made a point of getting together as much as they could, either in Tadfield or at the Dowling estate. They were slated to start a talk show circuit together during winter. Outside of that, Adam seemed very uninterested in pursuing acting further, citing a desire to just “be a kid” while he could. Warlock, explaining he needed something to “get him out of the house,” kept with it, and was in talks for getting a side character in a streaming original series. So this wasn’t only a shared birthday, but also an anniversary of their meeting and a celebration of their success. 

“I invited Crowley,” Warlock said as he and Adam got a soda refill. Dog was wearing a fancy kerchief for the occasion, and he was sitting at their feet, waiting for them to drop chips or cake or anything really. Dog wasn’t picky. “I know he won’t come, of course.” 

“You don’t know that,” Adam said, “Or you wouldn’t have invited him.” 

“He’s probably too busy to come,” Warlock continued, fiddling with the lip of his disposable cup. “Him and Mr. Aziraphale, I mean.” 

“Come on, kids,” Adam’s mum shouted, “Let’s get a few pictures!” and she began the slow process of rounding up the children from their various jungle gyms and play habitats, trying to gather them in one place. 

Adam picked Dog up so everyone would be in the picture, just as his mum was counting down for the first shot. Someone hissed: “Is that Anthony Crowley?” and Warlock whipped away as the flash went off. 

“Is Mr. Crowley here?” he asked, his voice raising multiple octaves, making him sound a lot younger than 12 years old.

“Okay, one more,” Adam’s mum begged, but Warlock had spotted two figures approaching and taken off. “Oh, maybe a little later,” she sighed, letting the other children go with an apologetic smile. 

Adam trailed behind Warlock, setting Dog back on the grass to follow along. Warlock was already talking very animatedly to Crowley by the time they joined him. 

“And you brought me petit fours!” Warlock squeaked, taking the box out of Aziraphale’s hands. 

“Yes, well, they’re for sharing, but I know how much you like them. If they don’t end up on the dessert table, I shall be quite understanding,” Aziraphale explained. “Hello, Adam. And, oh, you brought the dog,” he stated, less than enthused as Dog started to yap at him. Crowley snorted a laugh, but tried to hide it. 

“We weren’t sure you were coming,” Adam said. 

“Course we came. Warlock said your ma was doing the cake in the invitation, and Aziraphale wouldn’t shut up about it after he read that.” 

“And we wanted to visit, of course,” Aziraphale said, nudging Crowley a little. “Crowley said he had been wondering how you two were getting on.” 

“You could have asked,” Adam pointed out, directly to Crowley who, shocked to be so exposed, gaped between all of them. Even Dog came to sit at his feet and gaze up.

“I — I just meant after all the Armageddon’t stuff.” 

Warlock beamed, hugging his wrapped box of sweets to his chest. “I was wondering how you were doing too! You’ve stopped updating your Insta. Your twitter is still active, but I don’t think that one’s really you.” He looked at Aziraphale next. “And you don’t have social media, but I found you on jstor, but I didn’t to spend 20 quid on reading a stuffy book report from the 60s.” 

Aziraphale perked up. “I’m on the Internet! Oh, I had no idea! How wonderful? On the Jay Store, you say?” 

“Mr. Aziraphale! Mr. Crowley!” Adam’s mum greeted. She’d brought over two slices of birthday cake. Aziraphale tucked in immediately. Crowley didn’t eat his, likely saving it for later, when Aziraphale wanted another bite.

“Oh, Diedre, you look lovely! And the cake! I simply must have the recipe.” 

“You old silly,” she teased, giving him a playful swat on the arm. “I told you last year it was a secret!” 

“And I told you last year, whatever you want: gold, jewels, a new home. Anything you want!” and they started to walk off, Aziraphale giving Crowley a little smile before disappearing to go chitchat with the parents. 

“No one’s bothered you right?” Adam asked, barely above a whisper, to not draw suspicion. “Your boss, or Aziraphale’s ex?” 

“Nah,” Crowley said, sliding his free hand into his pocket. “Everything’s been quiet.” 

“If you ever need any backup,” Warlock said, very seriously. 

Crowley stared at him and then smiled, wide and sort of goofy. Neither child had seen him smile like that before. “Sure. I’ll give you a ring.” 

“Can you make a tiktok with me?” Warlock asked, handing Adam his box of petit fours and going for his phone. He held it in both hands and looked up at Crowley, eyes wide and hopeful. 

“Ahh. Why not?” he said. “As long as it’s not one of those dances.”

* * *

Even though Aziraphale had taken a tour of the garden numerous times, Crowley always had something new to show him, and the older well-established plants had their own familiar charm. They walked arm in arm, Crowley leading, just barely, pointing out this and that. 

“Look at the sowbread! Crowley, they’re beautiful!”

“Stop,” Crowley said, blushing regardless. “You’ll spoil them.” 

“And is that — strawberries! Dear, you planted strawberries for me. Oh, how lovely!” Aziraphale gave his arm a squeeze.

“Ngk, you said you would like it if I grew them, so.” 

“And I do! I love it! It’s marvelous. I’m so excited! And, oh, this is new.”

Crowley scratched his ear, trying to appear bored. “Yeah. You know what it is?” 

“Hmm. Let’s see.” Aziraphale leaned in for a better look. “Crowley.” He straightened right back up.

“Yes, angel?” 

“Are you growing cannabis in our garden?” 

“Erk, so, yeah. Uh — I mean, yes. I’m growing cannabis.” 

“Whatever for?” Aziraphale murmured. “Do you partake?”

“_Partake_, angel, really?” Crowley scoffed. However, a sudden thought seemed to strike him, and he tensed up. He asked a tight: “Wait. Do you?”

“Not for ages, my boy!” Aziraphale laughed. He didn’t know why Crowley thought he’d get in such trouble over this. “Centuries!” He reached forward to fiddle with the leaves. “It’s a hardy little plant, I hear.” 

“I got it as a joke, mostly. Thought it might surprise you. It’s just,” Crowley continued, still pale, “I hadn’t even considered if Gabriel might have… might have suggested you try it. Like with the — ” 

“Ah.” Aziraphale let go of his arm, suddenly feeling overwarm. He took off the coat he’d donned for the trip from the cottage to the greenhouse. It had been snowing for weeks now. “For my nerves, you mean? No, we rather learned our lesson after weaning me off cocaine. And lucky timing. Can you imagine what he would have done to me if valium or xanax had been options!” The words came out in a jumble, and when Aziraphale had pieced together just what he’d said, he felt a little sick. One look at Crowley, and he could tell the feeling was shared. 

“Aziraphale, that’s awful.” 

“I know. I didn’t mean it like that.” 

Crowley cringed. “_No_, it’s awful because you’re right.”

Aziraphale didn’t know what to say. He found the bench they’d placed between the calluna and lilac bushes and sat down heavily. Crowley stayed put, watching him. “Can I — ” Aziraphale started and then cleared his throat. “Can I ask what you saw? Or, I mean, did you notice what Gabriel — ” _what he was doing to me_ was too dramatic, but he couldn’t think of how else to ask. “Surely, you must have seen something.” Aziraphale tried again. “You didn’t like him. But was it just because I wasn’t happy? He was never particularly cruel, but I wonder…” Aziraphale couldn’t bring himself to keep on. 

“Angel,” Crowley said, and Aziraphale looked at him. His eyes were so marvelously expressive, so _alive_. Not for the first time, Aziraphale felt like an absolute idiot for believing they were somehow fake. “Gabriel was controlling. He was manipulative. He lied to you.” 

“So did you,” Aziraphale snapped, and then folded in on himself. Crowley crossed the greenhouse. “No, I didn’t mean that. I know why you didn’t tell me. I had my own secrets as well, or I thought I did at least.” 

Crowley sat beside him, but he didn’t touch him until Aziraphale, desperate to be comforted, offered his palm up. Then, Crowley cradled it with both of his hands, so gentle and restrained that Aziraphale could almost feel the tension of him holding back. It felt good to be treated with care. “I saw him. Okay? You’re not making things up or misremembering. Angel, he would keep you from performing miracles. He had that power over you, and he used it. He didn’t treat you as his equal.” 

Aziraphale scoffed. “I’m not his equal.” Crowley frowned, and Aziraphale looked away again. "I never forgot what he had over me. I felt so alone,” he admitted, shame swallowing him. “The entire Host was with me, but I felt all alone, except for him. But I was happy at times.” 

“Good.” Crowley nodded. “It’s good you weren’t perpetually miserable. I couldn’t handle it if you had been.” 

Aziraphale took a breath, steadying himself for what he was about to say. “The thing that — that I have trouble with, when I’m thinking things through, is I don’t know if he did it on purpose. To be unkind. Or if that’s the only way he knows how to love me.”

When Aziraphale peeked at Crowley, his eyebrows were drawn and his mouth slack. He looked devastated, and Aziraphale felt guilty. “I’ve ruined our garden tour,” he said, wincing a smile. 

“No, you haven’t,” Crowley said. “I want you to,er... talk about this stuff with me. If you want. I think it’s good for you. To not feel alone in this.” 

“What else is there to say?” Aziraphale looked out over the plants, getting a firm hold of himself. 

“Lots, I’d imagine.” Crowley said, “But you don’t have to get it all out at once.” Tenderly, softly, he squeezed Aziraphale’s hand. 

“You’re so good to me,” Aziraphale hummed, leaning in to press a kiss on Crowley’s cheek. 

“Gk. That’s not at all why I said it.” But Crowley didn’t push further, and they went inside shortly after, hand in hand, not wanting to separate quite yet.

That evening, after Aziraphale went down on Crowley’s pussy and Crowley had then kissed the slick off his face, they settled in for a cuddle. Aziraphale hesitated, head resting on Crowley’s shoulder, and then said: “I could be mean to him, you know. When we fought. I wasn’t blameless. I said some truly awful things.” 

“I bet you did,” Crowley hummed, still a little fucked out. “You can be a twat when you have your mind a certain way. But you never stopped him from using miracles. You never made him thank you for just being decent.” 

“He didn’t do that,” Aziraphale said, pulling a face. 

“Come on,” Crowley snorted. “All of that ‘aren’t you grateful you have a husband like me?’ shite. What else was he asking for?” 

Aziraphale felt funny remembering that particular quirk, like he was feverish in a bad way. “Yes, that was a little obnoxious.” 

“A little?” 

“You don’t have to tell me,” Aziraphale started, having worked up his nerve, “But you and he talked once or twice?” Crowley nodded. “It’s just I wonder if you ever talked about me.” And then Aziraphale quickly repeated: “You don’t have to say.” 

Crowley stared at him for a moment. “Angel, what else would we have talked about?” 

“Armageddon, surely.” 

“Ngk,” Crowley looked as though he had forgotten about the whole event. “No, we talked about you.” 

“I know it’s private, but did he ever say anything about me? Anything…” Aziraphale searched for the word. “Anything suspect?” 

“Satan’s knob, angel, _yes_. Everything he said was suspect.” And then, pausing before he got too excited, he asked a careful: “Do you want to know what he said?” 

Aziraphale hesitated. “No, I think it’s best I don’t. Not tonight at least. And I know Gabriel wasn’t good to me, I do. I just need to be reassured now and again.” 

“Of course,” Crowley murmured, like it was that easy. “Any time, however much you want. Forever.” he promised, and then blushed, having said maybe a little too much. 

“Hopefully, it won’t take quite that long,” Aziraphale offered, not wanting Crowley to dwell on any slips of the tongue. “After all, I think I’d prefer to just enjoy my time with you.” 

Smiling, burning red to the tips of his ears, Crowley nipped his fingers down Aziraphale’s back. “I’d say we get a good amount of enjoyment in regardless.” 

“Well,” Aziraphale said, arching against Crowley’s hand. “That’s enough self-reflection for one day, wouldn’t you say?” 

“Hmm, I’ll have to think it over.” Crowley was already rolling them over so he could slot himself on top. “Will you pull my hair?” 

Aziraphale huffed, but they both knew he would. “Will you kiss me?” he countered. 

“Where?”

“You fiend,” Aziraphale cursed. “My mouth.” His arms around Crowley’s shoulders, he drew Crowley close, their chests pressed together. Crowley kissed him soundly, lips open, making love between their mouths. Aziraphale felt undone and breathless, his sex warmly aching. Once thoroughly snogged, Crowley leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of his ear, breath hot on his neck. 

“Where next?”

* * *

Sir Rutger White had not been called Salome in years. Salome, while beloved by plenty of people, was a name that couldn’t possibly hold the prestige of the literally knighted, cultural phenom, musician-artist-activist that Sir Rutger White suggested. 

Still, scoring _The Way Home_ for a second time had stirred some nostalgia. He didn’t think that Salome would have hated what he’d become. He’d always planned on selling out if he wasn’t dead by 28, which is exactly what he had done. But, he wasn’t the same person who had worked with Snake and Eve, sprawled out on a coked out Austrian’s couch. Seeing Snake’s son in person on the red carpet during the premiere sort of rattled him.

He’d watched Anthony IV—Crowley, as everyone seemed to call him—on TV, of course, and the resemblance was remarkable there. But glancing around and seeing him in the flesh, Rutger had forgotten Snake was dead. It was like seeing his friend again, and he had to shake himself out of a stupor. 

“You want to say hi?” Patrick asked, looking smart in his tux. He was graying at the temples now, just a decade or two younger than Rutger himself. 

“Sure,” he managed out. The camera flashing all around him were, for the first time in a long while, disconcerting. “Come with?” he asked. 

Patrick glanced up from his phone and grinned. “Sorry, love. I’m texting the sitter. Autumn’s drawn Dracula on the wall again. I’ll hold your coat.” And, since Patrick wasn’t really famous outside of a single in the 90s and being Rutger’s husband, he could happily sit off to the side and text the babysitter a wikihow on getting crayola marker off white marble.

Rutger crossed over to where Crowley was currently being photographed, his hair the exact same wild red, his features identical to his father’s. He even had the same little snake tattoo on his temple. But Old Money could be eccentric, everyone knew that. With the sunglasses on, it was hard to know if Rutger had been spotted until Crowley quirked his mouth in his general direction, shocked to see him and trying to mask it. 

“Sir White, how about taking one with Crowley? Like old times?” someone said, which was how he ended up shoulder to shoulder with him. He was exactly the same: his mannerisms, his scent, the way he spoke. Rutger almost forgot to smile, taking all of him in. 

“Hi,” he said as they shook hands. “I knew your father,” he got out somehow. It was so strange to look older than him. Snake had always seemed so mature. 

“Right,” Crowley nodded, glancing away. “Sir Rutger White. That’s you. You’re looking well,” he said, and then snapped his mouth shut because it was a sort of odd thing to say to someone you’d just met. 

“You too,” Rutger said, and he finally let go of Crowley’s hand, not having realized he was still gripping it. “You look so much like him.” His eyes scanned, looking for any difference. Were even their freckles the same?

“Darling,” came from behind him. Rutger whipped around, because that voice was familiar. And sure enough, it was the fussy little professor that Snake had gone all dizzy over. 

Rutger looked between them. Crowley looked visibly uncomfortable, caught in a lie.

“Who’s this?” the scholar asked, face pleasantly neutral.

“Salome,” Crowley said, and then clarified. “I mean, he was Salome, when _my dad_ was in the band.”

“Yes.” His pale, pink face was open and socked. Blue eyes flickered over to Crowley, and everyone tried to think of something to say. “You’ve changed your hair,” he said, and then panicked and explained: “I mean, of course you have! I’ve seen, er, pictures of you from then. You’ll have to forgive me. I’m never current on, oh, popular culture, I suppose.” 

“Nice meeting you,” Crowley rushed, and he ducked away with the stuffy old professortype—and, Lord, but how old was he? Rutger couldn’t understand it. 

“Good chat?” Patrick asked, phone tucked in his pocket by the time Rutger wandered back.

“Brought back memories, I guess,” he said, because what else could he say? _Our daughter’s obsession with Dracula rubbed off on me and I’ve just seen_ — but that was it. He didn’t know what he’d seen.

All of a sudden, he realized it. Snake hadn’t died, alone, on a roof in France all those years ago. And the realization filled him with relief. Crowley — Snake — _his friend_, even if they’d mucked it up at the end, was all right. And it was like no time had passed since he’d last seen him. Maybe he should have felt angry, but Snake was okay. And he was _happy_ with the scholar, who Rutger could now see was charming in his own way. 

“We can cut out early if you need,” Patrick said, taking his hand. “If anyone has a problem with it, I’ll sic Autumn on them.”

Rutger laughed, and he shook his head. “No, it’s fine,” he said. And without knowing why, he admitted: “I never thought I’d live this long.” 

“Yes, well, you’re living another 30 years at least,” Patrick told him matter-of-factly. “You’re expected to see Autumn graduate medical school.” 

“Apparently anything is possible.” Rutger had made it through the 80s. He’d gotten married. He’d had a child. Hell, even Eve had settled down and was a grandfather now. And Snake was _alive_. “Let’s go in,” he said, taking his husband by the hand. “I hear the movie’s not half bad.”

* * *

“Do you think he recognized me?” Aziraphale whispered once they were seated in the theater. 

Crowley leveled a look at him. “Yeah, angel. I think he remembered you.” 

“Drat,” he cursed. “Do we need to — oh, I mean, will he be a problem?”

Crowley gave it a moment of thought. Salome would have been, but Rutger… “Nah. I think we’re in the clear.” 

Aziraphale sighed, relieved. “I don’t know how you’ve lived this way. I’ve had nosy neighbors with good memories before, but this is a little too much pressure for me.

“Good thing you’ve made an honest demon out of me,” Crowley said, spreading out, an arm coming around Aziraphale’s shoulders.

“Honest? Oh, I hope not. Otherwise, I’ll have to take up lying to the postman about just why your tulips are blooming in the winter, and I can’t say I’d be very good at that.” Aziraphale leaned against him, slightly, minutely, and it was _cosy_. Crowley was cosy and relaxed, even in a crowded theater of people watching him. 

“Angel,” he said, grinning wide. “I think I might be in love with you.” 

“Hush,” Aziraphale said sharply. “Warlock might be listening, and then we’ll never hear the end of it.” 

“I might not care if anyone’s listening,” Crowley said, satisfied all over. “Maybe I’ll get up and steal the mic and tell everyone here.” 

“If you do that. I’ll tell you I love you in front of the plants. You won’t be able to inspire much fear if they see how weak-kneed and silly you get.” 

Feeling ridiculously silly and quite a bit weak in his knees, Crowley purred: “You love me?” It was one of his favorite games that they played: saying it while not saying it. Aziraphale was always wicked to him in bed if he got riled up enough. 

Ezzy was getting up to introduced the film, and she looked rested, like she was actually pleased with the project. 

“Thanks for being here with me,” Crowley said, meaning for it to come out teasing and accidentally being sincere. 

“Hmm,” Aziraphale murmured. His attention was focused ahead. He said, voice surprisingly low and brisk: “Aren’t you very lucky to have such a good husband?” The words sent a chill through Crowley. He froze to keep himself from recoiling, only to see that Aziraphale was fighting a smile. “I can’t do it with a straight face,” he broke. “Did I sound like him?” 

Crowley stared at him, mouth open, in some kind of awe. Finally, he started laughing. “Your American accent is atrocious.” 

Aziraphale looked pleased regardless. “I doubt you could do better.”

“Me?” Crowley blustered. “I have an Emmy!” 

“Shh,” Aziraphale said, because the lights were going down. Crowley toyed with some of the curls at the back of Aziraphale’s neck, continuing to watch him through the production logos. Aziraphale, in the dark, still shone. Crowley looked at the screen. Everything lit up, and the movie started. 

He’d always liked this story.

**Author's Note:**

> please comment, because it makes me happy! love to you, and take care of yourselves! 
> 
> ([Follow me on my professional fanfiction twitter](https://twitter.com/gigglesnortPro) or [just come kick it with me on my tumbly](https://gigglesnortbangdead.tumblr.com))

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [The Way Home: Missing Pieces](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23287009) by [GiggleSnortBangDead](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GiggleSnortBangDead/pseuds/GiggleSnortBangDead)
  * [Tribulations (based on The Way Home)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26288041) by [HipHopAnonymous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HipHopAnonymous/pseuds/HipHopAnonymous)


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